


More Heart, Less Attack

by detour



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Emotional Baggage, M/M, Recovery, Self-Discovery, Shrunkyclunks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-16 03:32:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 39,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11820333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/detour/pseuds/detour
Summary: After SHIELD’s collapse, Steve comes back in New York. Without a war or crisis, he’s struggling to find his place in the world again. There’s time to relearn his city and time to wonder what he’s doing here.When a mysterious guy hits on him on the subway, it’s a welcome interruption. Something resonates between the two of them, a connection neither of them try to deny. The trouble is that Barnes disappeared three years ago, and the more Steve learns, the more he wants to know.But Barnes disappeared for a reason.Sam rolls his eyes. “Yes, Steve, you could have a lead on a three year old mystery because you’re just that good, not because a random hipster flirted with you.”“Well, when you put it that way,” Steve says.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For Stucky Big Bang 2017. Art by doomcheese. What a wild ride. 
> 
> I had an amazing time working with doomcheese for this. Her art is truly amazing and I am so fortunate to have it grace this story. Doomcheese, it was a pleasure! 
> 
> Bee, thank you for rescuing me with a well-timed edit!

Steve wears the baseball hat and glasses disguise when he takes the subway to Brooklyn. Even if he feels ridiculous, he has to admit it’s effective. He's still bigger, stronger than anyone else, but he looks like one of them, casual and faceless in the way only crowds can be. He can slump his shoulders and disappear.

It’s as close to comfortable as he gets these days. In the world but not of it. He really should have pushed for a secret identity before fighting aliens in Times Square. He's been thinking of growing a beard. Natasha approves.

There's an almost desperate quality to the future—the present, how people think they deserve things just because they want them. They wanted him to be a reminder of simpler times, even though Steve would be the first to tell them the forties were hardly idyllic. Rampant racism, disease and poverty. Those were the days.

There’s a blast of warmish air from the vent he’s standing underneath, making him close his eyes for just a second. The dark, the warmth, the pressure makes him dizzy, swaying with the train.

Since DC he hasn’t been sleeping much. He's certain Natasha hasn't either. Having your basic belief systems rocked will do that.

He catches himself on the railing before they rattle their way over the bridge, the sudden shift in light behind his eyelids making him open his eyes.

So that’s why they call it falling asleep.

Steve blinks, eyeing his fellow passengers.

No one’s looking but no one’s _not_ looking. It’s a reassuring balance. He feels nearly ordinary. More like his old self.

These people are strangers but probably harmless. He reaches up to adjust the collar on his jacket, but he’s really making sure no one’s watching him too closely for these kind of tells.

Steve sighs, trying to believe that he’s fine. He’d agreed to the trip to the museum last week but he hadn’t really factored in getting there. This has been twenty minutes of low grade stress nausea.

He almost wishes he’d taken Tony up on his offer of a car instead of trying to relive his memories of the 4 train.

When he looks back down to his watch he catches this guy looking at him from across the car. He looks like he could be anyone from this new Brooklyn, an archetype with a black slouchy hat and cardigan sweater, and he’s currently smirking at Steve like he knows something.

Frowning at him, Steve looks away. The familiarity—the attention makes him uncomfortable. He hopes he isn’t about to get recognized in the crowded train car and that the guy just thinks he recognizes one of his own in the thick-framed glasses.

Steve looks up at the route map above the guy’s head, reminding himself of the station he needs, and when he looks back the guy's still watching. He’s good looking in the classic, cultivated kind of way a lot of guys are now.

“What,” Steve mouths, because the guy won't be able to hear him over the suits and briefcases between them, and the guy shrugs.

Steve kind of glares at him, checks the time again, and loses track of the guy when they stop to let more people on. Lurching forward a bit when they start moving again, Steve tightens his grip around the post, and the guy in front of him turns around to be the guy from across the subway car.

“Hey,” the guy says, and reaches up to scratch at his cheek and the curated stubble. Modern guys are just as particular as ones from the thirties, just in a different way. “Sorry, I was just looking at you—your direction, I wasn’t staring.”

“It’s fine,” Steve says. He tries not to look directly in the guy’s eyes because it feels too personal, but they’re almost of a height and standing pretty close besides. The guy’s eyes are this intense, pure blue. Steve can’t help but notice.

“No, I’m sorry, it was rude,” he says. His voice is raspy and low, which means Steve has to stay close to hear him clearly over the ambient noise in the train car.

“Just, don’t say anything?” Steve asks, hoping keeping the note of pleading out of his voice. He shoots a look to the map posted above the sliding exit doors. From this angle, he can’t see anything and doesn’t know how far he is from his stop. If the guy makes a big deal over him, over Captain America, he doesn’t have much of an option of where to go.

There are too many people in the train car suddenly.

“Don’t say anything?” The guy frowns, taking a step back to look at Steve’s face more carefully. “You want me to…stop talking to you?”

“Don’t say anything to anyone about me,” Steve says.

“What would I say about you,” the guy says, still looking confused. “I don’t even know you.”

“You don’t—” Steve cuts himself off before he says it out loud, that he’s Captain America. The car’s filled with people on their way to important places, he’s sure someone would overhear and make it uncomfortable.

“I just thought I’d, never mind,” the guy says, dropping the connection that they’ve held since meeting eyes across the car. It’s a noticeable difference even if it’s not a loss. “Forget it.”

“Sorry,” Steve says. He should be embarrassed for thinking this guy recognized him, for inflating his own importance.

“No, I am,” he says, with a smile that only lifts one side of his face. It’s oddly charming, even if he looks uncertain about relative happiness. Steve can’t help but smile back, even if this guy is one of the weirdest he’s met in a while.

The train slows again at the next stop and Steve moves aside so someone can push past to exit the train, and when it moves again the guy is gone.

Steve shrugs it off, and doesn't really think much of it. It was weird, but no more than usual. The future has been strange.

He gets off at Franklin to walk the west of the way to the museum. He's pleasantly early for his meeting with Pepper, getting a chance to inspect the front lobby before he hears the sound of her heels on the tile.

“Steve,” Pepper says warmly, stopping with a few feet between them. “I’m so glad you agreed to meet with me.”

“I’d never turn down a request from a beautiful woman,” Steve says, and winces. “Sorry, should I still say something like that?”

“I won’t complain,” Pepper says. “And as much as I’m sure you’d be thrilled to field more questions about how things have changed and find out how out of touch you are, we are at a museum. I would personally rather look at art.”

“You read that article, huh?” Steve says.

Pepper just smiles and turns to lead the way into the museum. They bypass a few people waiting at the visitors centre to slip into the first collection in the Great Hall.

Only a few steps in, and Steve already feels like the experience is nothing like the few times he’d managed to scrape together enough to afford the trip.

“I’m not sure whether to watch you or to enjoy the art,” Pepper admits, even though she’s staring intently at a vase.

“Please, the art,” Steve says. “It’s just, it’s not the kind of thing I was expecting.”

“I thought Brooklyn would be a good choice, it’s not as contemporary as the MoMA but still has collections of modern interest.” Pepper steps further through the exhibit, winding around pieces set randomly throughout the space.

Steve follows, taking his time at the pieces that catch his interest. “The museum is—the layout wasn’t always this inventive.”

“I like how I can see all sides of three dimensional pieces,” Pepper says. “It wasn’t always like this?”

“Less inviting, looking back,” Steve says. “Not that we’d known that at the time.”

Pepper makes an affirming noise. “Did you visit often?”

“As much as I could afford, really,” Steve says, drawing closer to a black and white print that turns out to be a painting. “I was never formally trained, I just had a knack for observation and repeating what I saw.”

“I think you’re too hard on yourself,” Pepper says. She leads the way to the stairs, bypassing the closed second floor for the third and more familiar territory of European prints and paintings. “I saw some of your early sketches.”

“People always think I had more to do with art than I actually did,” Steve says. “I just drew a lot, learned to paint at a job that I had to gave up when I got too sick. I don’t think I was ever going to be any good. I wasn't really an artist.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Pepper says, stopping in front of a Monet and putting a hand on his arm. “I’m one of those people.”

Steve tries to soften the sudden tension with the sheepish smile he trots out on the regular. “I still like to look?”

Pepper sighs. Her disappointment seems to be directed inward, towards herself. “Do you want to?”

“I do,” Steve says. He steps closer to speak to one of the Madonnas instead of Pepper. “I missed so much being asleep. Art. Music. Everyone has this one thing that will explain what I missed, and they’re all _right._ Historic events are just a timeline, a list of things that happened. The shifts in style show what was important, how people lived.”

“I’d be interested to see what your style becomes, if you get the chance to develop it.” Pepper nods at one of the Italian artists and makes a minute shake of her head.

Steve half-laughs. “I do find myself with time on my hands, with SHIELD’s collapse.”

“Tony could find room for you with Stark Securities,” Pepper says carefully. They reach the circuit of the European art and into more familiar territory: ancient Egypt hasn’t changed since Steve was a kid.

Hill works for Stark Securities now, and from what Steve’s observed she’s taken Tony’s idea and made it real.

He shrugs and moves to look at the next piece. “I appreciate that, but I don't really know if it's what I want to be doing.”

“If I can ask, what do you want to do, Steve?”

Steve takes a minute to think about it, staring at a stone tablet in silence.

“I joined the army to stop bullies,” he says finally. “I wasn’t born to be a soldier. I just wanted to stand up for what was right. It wasn’t like I was defined by the war as much as refined by it. I had a purpose. Whatever else I wanted, it didn’t matter.”

Pepper makes a noise to concede the thought when Steve pauses.

He shifts down the line to look more closely at a carving. “It’s not as clear today. It’s why I stayed with SHIELD, they gave me targets to hit. But with Hydra at the heart? I don’t know who I’m helping.”

“And one life is enough to give for your country?” Pepper asks.

“Fair,” Steve admits. “I’m tired of destroying everything in my path.”

Pepper nods, looking him steadily in the eye. It’s reassuring in a way Steve doesn’t find often these days. “Although I think you have a future as a speechwriter, let me think about this. I have some ideas.”

“Thank you,” Steve says, meaning it. It's kind of nice to have someone else thinking about him. He doesn't feel so alone.

“For now, I want you to enjoy the rest of the art I now feel like I dragged you to see,” Pepper says over Steve's protests that he wants to be here. “Maybe you can tell me more about what movements you’re finding you like. I favour more modern eras myself,” Pepper says, and keeps up a running commentary as she guides him through the collection.

* * *

Steve takes Pepper up on the offer for a ride home, too exhausted to think about managing the subway again. She stays with the car to head to dinner with some executives, not showing any of the day in her posture or expression. Steve isn’t sure how she does it.

He should probably send her a note in thanks for taking time out of her busy schedule for him. Also, he should tell Sam he was right the next time he brings up talking through his issues. Maybe Sam will give Natasha the gears for a change. If anything else, it’ll be entertaining.

Sam’s sitting on the couch in the lounge when Steve gets past the public access elevator bay and onto the private floors, buried in a newspaper and letting his noodles congeal on the kitchen counter.

“Mind if I eat these?” Steve asks, hanging his coat in the closet and then sticking his finger into the middle to check if they’re still warm. They’re from Hanh’s Kitchen a few blocks over, and it’d be a crying shame if they went to waste.

“Knock yourself out,” Sam says, and turns another page with a rustle.

Steve sticks the bowl into the microwave, heading up one floor to duck into his room to shed his meeting clothes. He shakes out the button down before he hangs it neatly back in his closet and leaves his room in sweats and a tee. The microwave beeps and he slides another bowl underneath that one, taking them carefully to the couch to sit down somewhere in the middle.

“I’m done with the first half,” Sam says, using the heel of his foot to drag the paper down the coffee table. Since moving into Avengers Tower, Tony’s had any number of newspapers delivered to their door. They get the _Times_ every day but neither of them know why that one comes on the regular.

“I'm good,” Steve says, fishing for the remote to turn the TV on.

The fireplace flares into life instead.

Steve looks at the remote he’s holding. It looks right, but he’s obviously not catching on to technology the way he thought he was. Or Tony’s being funny again—either are likely.

He picks up the newspaper instead. It’s the first half, the front page article talking about politics and the economy, and Steve makes a face. He never feels his gap years as much as he does reading a commentary with references thirty years out of date that he still doesn’t have a hope to understand.

“I'll be done with sports in a minute,” Sam says, and turns another page.

“No hurry,” Steve says. He leans over to check what page Sam's on, and catches sight of a headshot near the bottom of the page. “Do we know that guy from something?”

“What guy?” Sam asks, and opens the paper a little wider so Steve can see better. Steve leans in for a second look and it dawns on him. It's the guy from the subway, younger and more surprised than he'd been that morning.

“I saw him on the subway. Thought he made me,” Steve says, gesturing to the picture with his fork. “Why’s he in the paper?”

“Steve, this guy went missing three years ago,” Sam says slowly, and folds the paper the wrong way to show Steve the article that goes along with it.

The article says it's the third anniversary to the day of James Barnes' disappearance. Steve figures out the guy in the photo is Barnes, that he didn't come home from work one day and just vanished.

“I'm telling you, I saw him,” Steve insists, and checks the photo more carefully. It is him, even though he's lost weight since the photo was taken and gotten better looking too. “On the subway, I talked to him.”

“Some guy that looks like him, maybe,” Sam says, and goes to take the paper back.

Steve makes a noise in protest and tries to find his place again in the article, right about the point where it says Barnes' partner is still insisting he's alive, and the police are still insisting that the partner is a person of interest.

“No, I think it’s the same guy,” Steve says, letting Sam have his paper back, and sets the noodles down on the table. They’ll be fine, and he's too busy thinking to have much of an appetite.

“Probably just a lookalike,” Sam says, and unfolds the newspaper to check on the classifieds.

“Seen one hipster, seen them all,” Steve half-agrees, but it felt like more than that. He picks up the bowl to have at the noodles again.

“Hey, are those mine?” Sam notices when Steve’s made short work of the contents. He holds the sports page hostage.

“Were,” Steve says, and gets up to head to the sink to wash out the bowl. “Do you want me to toss something else in for you?”

“You better,” Sam says. “Something from Tony’s diner.”

It’s a standing joke about the ready-made meals that mysteriously arrive in the refrigerator every week, whether they eat them or not. Tony always gets a look on his face like he’s not sure if they’re saying something nice. He never had siblings so the concept of teasing is probably an underdeveloped one.

Steve had protested the indulgence just the once, when Tony had been obviously not eating any of the food in the common kitchen. Something obnoxious about the excess and how unnecessary it was, before he’d realized it was how Tony showed affection.

He’s been more careful since, trying to figure out the dynamic before he jumps in to solve problems. Might have been a smart idea back in DC, before Pierce sent someone to kill him. Probably would have meant fewer punches back when he was small, too.

“Do you want this there,” Steve asks Sam when the microwave beeps with the pre-made cabbage rolls.

“Nah, I’ll come get it,” Sam says, stretching when he gets up off the couch and moving to the kitchen space.

“You really think it’s a coincidence?” Steve asks him, folding his arms over his chest to watch Sam’s expression at the cabbage rolls.

It falls, as always, but Sam didn’t have to live through the Depression so Steve believes it’s justified.

Sam looks at Steve with the disappointment all over his face. “Is what a coincidence?”

“The guy from the subway, the missing one. Seeing him on the anniversary of when he vanished.”

Sam raises his eyebrows, pausing in the motion of carrying his plate to the table to eat. He's constantly appalled at the Avengers’ lack of table manners and vocal about it. “Do you want honesty, or do you want to feel better?”

“Honesty,” Steve says, “but in a nice way.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Yes, Steve, you could have a lead on a three year old mystery because you’re just that good, not because a random hipster flirted with you.”

“Well, when you put it that way,” Steve says.

“Here,” Sam says, pressing one of the Tower's many tablets into Steve’s hands. “Google to your heart’s content. Realize the missing guy is probably dead and it was a random but harmless encounter.”

“Will do,” Steve says, and takes the tablet back to the couch. He settles down in the light from the fireplace, enjoying the heat on the bottoms of his bare feet.

He types _Barnes_ and _disappearance_ into the address bar of the tablet’s browser with his index finger. His abilities online are laughable compared to someone who’s grown up with it, but results helpfully appear anyway.

From the original articles reporting on his disappearance, Steve learns his middle name is Buchanan, he owned a craft brewery and lived in Fort Greene, and didn't make it to the evening commute one Thursday three years ago.

After brief but thorough coverage in most of the major outlets, the leads seemed to dry up. The police had liked his business partner for it, but even that turned up nothing.

Steve loses some time reading the comments on the articles, because a lot of people had opinions on Barnes. A lot felt like it was some play for attention, others that he’d skipped out when his business went bad. Three years on and Google confirms the 107 Brewing Company is still operating, so bankruptcy looks to be out.

There’s a whole sidebar about what a shame it’d be if a guy that good looking turned up dead, featuring commentary on his impressive blue eyes. Which Steve agrees with, even if the observation feels out of place alongside talk of dragging the East River.

He closes out of the news articles, using borrowed Stark Securities credentials to scan for any intake records at hospitals, jails, and the medical examiner. There’s nothing under any variation of Barnes’ name or any John Does that match his description.

It’s like the guy actually vanished. Steve, having come back from the dead, doesn’t believe it. There’s more to it than that.

He ends his session with the online records, searching instead for more information on the brewery. It’s in Red Hook, operating under the name of a Rebecca Proctor. Near enough that Steve could bump into the woman accidentally. Steve thinks maybe, if James is actually here in the city, then his partner knows more than she’s been telling the cops.

She looks competent when she shows up on the brewery’s social feeds, working at the vats or holding up samples of beer in branded glasses. Steve has to go the full three years back to catch a glimpse of Barnes with her, throwing a handful of barley at the twist of his shoulders, his face mostly turned away. They look happy. Steve closes out, feeling uncomfortable.

Barnes doesn’t appear on any social accounts of his own, and there’s only one other picture of him at the brewery in soft focus. It definitely looks like the guy from the train, but Steve has to wonder if Sam might be right—

A carrot drops into his lap, and Steve jumps.

“So you are awake,” Clint says from the kitchen, holding another carrot. He has good aim, but then again, so does Steve. The carrot sails back and hits Clint solidly on the shoulder before he catches it.

“I was researching,” Steve says over his shoulder. He exits from the social sites. Did he really have six tabs open to Barnes’ impressive biceps stirring a kettle? Apparently.

“What, ways to build up your pecs?” Clint asks. He must not have taken his aids out for the night.

“It’s leg day,” Steve says. “No, I saw this guy on the 4 train.”

“So now you're googling the shit out of him?” Clint comes into the lounge and flops down bonelessly on the other side of the big couch. He’s holding one of the cans of ‘trash’ beer Tony refuses to keep in the big fridge. “I'm not sure what they called that in the forties but nowadays that’s stalking.”

Steve levels a look at him.

It just makes Clint smirk in response. “Oh, was it stalking back then too?”

“Do you honestly want to know?” Steve sets the tablet aside, rolling his shoulders back against the couch to stretch them out. He’s surprisingly stiff.

Clint rolls another beer down the couch to Steve, who picks it up gratefully. “That's my secret Cap, I'm always curious.”

Steve cracks open the trash beer and shrugs. “I talk to this guy on the train and it turns out he vanished three years ago. So now I don't know if it's a lookalike or a ghost.”

“And the verdict?”

“Uncertain,” Steve says. “Part of me wants to get Natasha’s help but she's on assignment until next week.”

“I think it's a ghost,” Clint says decisively. “Dead guy appears to Captain America for justice. Or not dead but he's in a coma. Have you ever seen the movie _Ghost Dad?”_

Steve frowns at Clint’s sudden change of subject. “What number is that on the list?”

“Oh, not even,” Clint says cheerfully. He and Tony had made a list of films Steve had to see, and he's been diligently working his way through it. He'd begun to doubt the significance of the choices somewhere around the one with the talking plant. “Jarvis? Can you find _Ghost Dad_ to stream for us?”

“I’ll do my best, Mr. Barton,” the ceiling says.

“Is this really going to help?” Steve asks.

“It's funny as hell,” Clint says. “Actually no, it's this hot mess of 90s cinema but I feel it illustrates my point.”

“That this guy is a ghost?”

“Yep,” Clint says. “Also, we’re going to watch _Ghostbusters_ after so you’ll realize Tasha is not going to be your best asset in the field for this one.”

Steve winces. “Isn’t it—what time is it?”

“It’s only two,” Clint says. “Besides, you can watch this and take notes, call it research. Then decide whether subway man is a ghost or just a handsome fellow you think is swell.”

“Not like I’ll see him again,” Steve says, and settles in when Jarvis flips on the tv to start the film.

* * *

Over the next few days, Steve finds himself on the 4 train more often. He spends more time in Brooklyn than he had since waking up in the twenty-first century. He'd been back once after thawing, but everything was unfamiliar in a way that ached to be undone. Realizing the futility, he accepted the invitation to Manhattan and then to DC. He would have accepted Malibu too, except Natasha flew the plane back to New York.

He's exploring in hopes of stumbling over Barnes, to answer a few questions. He's not having any luck.

He thinks he sees Barnes at least four times, but each time it's just another hipster.

It really is a pervasive look. Scruffy, lots of plaid, a careless attitude about life that Steve can’t understand. He’s still working on his own beard, barely a day past stubble. It itches, but Steve likes the anonymity it promises.

After the impromptu ghost movie marathon, Clint had given him a list cribbed from some nonsensical source called wikihow. It apparently gives instructions on how to do things like find a missing person or figure out if he's being haunted.

In the light of day, both seem equally likely.

He's done some of the list already with his late night research, and he's not willing to reopen old wounds by tracking down Barnes’ business partner for his own curiosity. It's all based on his gut feeling at this point, that there's more to the situation than what's been reported in the news.

And okay, he's also wondering why Barnes would make the effort to talk to him if he’d also made the effort to disappear in the first place. Maybe Barnes was a fan of the comics when he was a kid, or maybe Sam was right and it was just flirtation. Nothing to hang onto, just a brief connection.

Steve orders a coffee from a guy wearing a slouchy hat at a place he stumbles across in Clinton Hill. The cost of it gives him a slight hiccup, handing over a five and has little coming back to drop into the tip jar.

He takes his coffee with him down a one-way street, through the Pratt campus. It seems bigger, but other than the taller fence around the library he doesn’t notice much difference. It was always the dream when he was small, but affording it was never going to happen.

It’s easy to waste time here, where students flow around him like they don’t even see him. He can step into the buildings, closer than he ever got the first time around. One of the security guards near the pedestrian gate starts giving him a closer look the third time he passes by, so Steve makes the decision to move on before it becomes an incident. He’s been expressly advised not to cause any incidents.

By noon he’s in Fort Greene, stopping at a diner that advertises comfort and soup on the street sign. The soup is good enough, spicy with some flavour he doesn’t recognize. It’s accompanied by some crusty bread with a salty taste that reminds him of something he used to be able to get when he lived in a neighbourhood like this.

He resumes exploring after, waiting to cross Clermont when he realizes this was the street Barnes lived on. The light’s still red so he takes it as a sign to tour. Row houses line one side, with more modern apartment buildings towering over the other. It’s a decent street, with full grown trees and populated with as many churches as buildings.

From one of the articles Steve knows Barnes lived in a row house. A for rent sign in a lower window catches Steve’s eye when he passes, thinking—but no, three years is too long for a place like this to sit empty.

The man smoking near the stoop catches him looking at it, and gestures to the door. “Are you in the market? S’empty, we can take a look.”

“Uh, sure,” Steve says, shoving his hands into his coat pockets awkwardly and following the man into the building. The apartment is on the second floor, narrow, with a few front windows that look out onto the street below. It’s reminiscent of the rehabbed tenements and row houses Steve’s familiar with, one room feeding into another. Bigger than those were, even after reforms, but small compared to his place in DC. And all this for just one person.

Steve makes the appropriate noises for the landlord, inspecting the water pressure in the sink and the view out the back to a small green space that belongs to the rooms downstairs. He thanks the man and takes down his phone number even though he has no intention to call.

DC was isolating. He'd drifted in the unfamiliar DuPont Circle neighbourhood, nothing to place him in that new present until he'd met Sam. It was the first genuine connection he'd made there, as anything SHIELD touched felt coloured by the past. Even his neighbour, the nurse he'd thought he might have had a thing or two in common with with, even she turned out to be one of SHIELD’s agents.

Touring the apartment is thought provoking, but he's not ready to live alone again. Not yet. He still enjoys the noise of other people around him, the knowledge that someone would notice if Steve went squirrelly one day.

He's standing on the stoop and looking over the street when he sees the same slouchy hat Barnes wore on the subway, the same broad shoulders. Barnes is across the street and heading away from him, towards the park.

Steve doesn't think, just tears down the steps and dodges the sudden influx of traffic on the sidewalk, strollers and dogs and people. The mood shifts, sharpens, their sudden awareness of him matched by a rising displeasure at his interruption—

All for nothing. He comes to a stop on the far side of the street when there's no sign of anyone matching Barnes’ physical description and no hats anywhere.

“Dammit,” Steve breathes out, ducking next to a church’s entryway to disappear before someone links him to the guy who'd been hurdling strollers. What made him think he saw something, what made him run? He’s not even sure he actually saw anything anymore, or whether he’s just creating a mystery for something to do.

Maybe Sam was right and he just needs to be busy with a project. He should go on the next mission that comes up, join Natasha when she follows the next Hydra lead. Anything would sound saner than searching for a guy who may not even exist.

Straightening, Steve resumes his walk back to the subway station. He’s had enough of Brooklyn for now, but before he can start down the stairs his phone starts vibrating with a call. He steps back to use a building as a windbreak, stepping closer to the brick wall to stay out of pedestrian traffic.

It’s Pepper.

“Steve, hi,” Pepper says, voice friendly. “I hope this is a good time.”

“I was just out for a walk,” Steve says, not mentioning his walk has lasted for five hours so far.

“I had a thought about what you’ve been looking for,” Pepper says. “Well, two thoughts.”

Steve just about has a heart attack, thinking of his clandestine if casual searches for a particular hipster.

Pepper continues without noticing his hesitation. “First, I have a line on an internship with a museum. Strictly research.”

With that, Steve can breathe and answer. “What do I know from museums?”

“You have an eye for items of interest, and I know you have a way with words.”

“And you think I’m qualified,” Steve says.

“I may have suggested I know an expert on the early 20th century.” Pepper huffs out a laugh. “But I get the impression it’s not what you were hoping for.”

“I’m trying to put the past behind me,” Steve says apologetically, shifting further away from the stairs.

“Then my second thought, which was also my original thought,” Pepper says. “Maria is looking for someone she can trust to work with her.”

“So this is a Captain America kind of job,” Steve says. He’s not surprised, exactly, but he thinks what he’s feeling could be called disappointment.

“No,” Pepper says quickly. “It’s in her office. Administrative work processing registrations, writing documents, paperwork.”

“And you thought of me?”

“It’s not your usual, but I thought you’d welcome the change,” Pepper says. “The program Maria’s heading up is a good opportunity.”

“It sounds interesting,” Steve says to buy time to think, even though Pepper hasn’t said much about it. It sounds too much like what he was doing for SHIELD. At the same time, paperwork is harmless, and Hill is a capable person.

“Interesting in a thanks, but no thanks Pepper way?” She asks.

“You know, it does sound great,” he says. “Tell Hill I’ll get in touch with her?”

“She’ll be pleased. And I think this will be good for you,” Pepper says, ending the call with a promise to email him the details.

Steve can feel his shoulders relax even as he slides his phone into his pocket. He’s gotten tired of waiting around to be called into a fight. This is more like building.


	2. Chapter 2

As a joke, Tony gives Steve tickets for the Tenement Museum along with a note that says  _ yes you can go home again. _ Steve makes a face, but takes the tickets all the same, because part of him thinks he should go for the experience. The other part refuses to let money spent go to waste. 

Clint comes along when Steve goes to visit, wearing a plaid shirt open over a tee with the shield emblem on it. 

Steve shakes his head when he sees it. “Are you asking for us to get noticed?”

“It'd be exciting.” Clint finishes tying his shoes and stands up with a bounce. “Just be glad it's not  _ my _ face on the shirt.”

“Does Hawkeye even have a logo?” 

“Nothing as marketable as the red white and blue,” Clint says, following Steve to the elevator. 

“Touché,” Steve says. They have a guided tour booked for the museum that will take them through the second floor and focus on how people handled economic crisis. 

It doesn't occur to him until they're standing outside the museum, listening to the docent’s introduction, that the Great Depression might not have been the best choice of subject for the tour. 

“You alright?” Clint asks, leaning into Steve’s shoulder as they follow the group into the elaborately decorated front foyer. 

It’s a press of noise and bodies, and Steve turns a little towards Clint to clear the way if he needs to read lips. “Just thinking.”

“You should stop that, life gets a lot easier,” Clint says. 

“It's just familiar,” Steve says before they have to hush up for the docent. They go through the first set of rooms, a small space where a family of six had lived during an earlier financial crisis. A discussion arises about what they would have done in that time, before social programs existed, one where Steve gladly lets Clint speak for both of them. 

He's surprisingly opinionated, and Steve learns he entered the foster system when he was younger. Separated from his only remaining family, Clint says it fills a gap left when normal society bonds can't or won't help, but it leaves a lot to be desired. One of the others on the tour agrees, and the docent has to intervene before they hijack the rest of the tour. 

Clint winks when they shift back into the hallway to explore the next space. Steve nods in appreciation, touched at Clint’s consideration and deft handling of the situation. 

The other apartment is arranged to emulate the 1930s and has Steve stepping back to the rear of the group without intending to do it. 

“Too familiar?” Clint asks when the group starts listing the improvements between this apartment and the one before. 

“Just a bit,” Steve says. “We used to live in a place a little like this. It was just the two of us, so it wasn’t quite this...efficient.”

“And in Brooklyn, right?” Clint’s voice is soft so it doesn’t carry to the docent.

Steve nods. “South Bed-Stuy, actually.”

“No shit?” Clint says. “I own—owned a building in Bed-Stuy.” 

“It was close enough to work for her,” Steve says, avoiding the topic of Clint’s building. Even on his misguided searches, he’s been keeping west of Nostrand to avoid certain memories. He falls silent when the docent starts speaking about the economic challenges of the time, even though he remembers them clearly. 

“Are you going to join this discussion, or do you want me to,” Clint leans in to ask when the docent looks them over and asks what they would have done, facing these kind of trials. 

“Well,” Steve starts, but then something the white guy in the cargo pants is saying catches his attention. 

“I would have just saved what money I could for the things I needed,” he says. “Like in ’07, there’s no need to go without if you’re wise with your money.”

The docent has a fake smile, like she hears this kind of reasoning on the regular. 

“But there  _ was _ no money,” Steve blurts out. “You’d have been working part time at best, maybe at half, quarter wages. You spent everything you got. Production was down because no one was working, and that meant even if you could afford it, there wasn’t much to buy.”

“So what did people do, if they didn’t get money?” The guy says, halfway belligerent. 

“We—they bartered, goods for goods or service,” Steve says. “I—my, uh, ancestor lived through it. Even if you wanted to get paid for something in actual currency, the other person wouldn’t have it. So you just had to make do.”

“That is the more typical experience,” the docent says, and shifts the conversation to each of their backgrounds, and if they had ancestors that came through Ellis Island. 

Steve isn’t surprised at how many of the other ten people on the tour have associations to that gateway, but none of them seem to be connected to the city anymore. He is the only one who can say he’s lived in the city for generations, even if he does have to amend his history slightly from being second-generation American to fourth to allow for the new math. 

The docent finds him fascinating, that he knows so much about his family’s history, and presses him with questions about their immigrant experience in a way that makes Steve feel uncomfortable with the necessary lies. Steve’s fumbling over a sentence about newspapers in his—grandfather’s shoes when Clint finally breaks in to ask leading questions about cabbages. 

“Thanks for that,” Steve says later, once they’re released from the distinct smell of preserved age. 

“Could tell you were struggling,” Clint says, holding out his arms and lurching unsteadily as he walks forward. “Must tell truth but also can’t tell truth—”

“I wasn’t that obvious,” Steve says. 

“To a stranger, probably not,” Clint says, and taps Steve’s elbow when they pass by a noodle place. It’s stark in contrast to the warm finishes and sepia tones of the apartments they toured, all sleek lines and chrome. It’s kind of a relief when he’s back in unfamiliar territory. 

Steve lets Clint order, staking out a space at the bar that lines one side of the restaurant with unreasonably high chairs made out of plastic. There’s so much plastic these days. 

“So what’s with the urge to relive the past?” Clint asks, setting something salty and hot in front of him. 

Some kind of soup, Steve thinks, but he’s not sure. 

“I’m just trying to relearn my city,” Steve says. “Some ideas are better than others.” 

“That sounds kind of depressing. Or masochistic.” Clint uses chopsticks like he’s a pro. His dish is distinctly less soup-like. 

“It’s not that,” Steve says, using a flat-bottom spoon to navigate the contents of his bowl, buying time to think about his answer. “I guess I know I can’t go back there, and finding what I like about the world now helps me not want to?” 

“I guess you can’t just slip home for the weekend to remember how good you have it now,” Clint says. 

“And the food, Clint, everything was  _ boiled _ back then,” Steve says, working on getting noodles actually onto his spoon. “Nothing like it is now. I could just eat forever.” 

“Not exactly what I’d think you’d be into,” Clint says. “But I guess that’s a good sign.”

“Good, how?” 

“Your shield would be less effective against stacks of paperwork and requisitions.” Clint makes a clinking noise as he mimics a throw. 

“Says the guy with a bow and arrows.” Steve says. 

Clint tips his head to the side, allowing that one. “Hate to think you get a chance at a new century and spend it shooting the same Nazis you beat first time around. Especially now that we have aliens and shit to deal with.”

“I’d take a pass on the aliens if I could,” Steve says. “Not my favourite 21st century experience.”

“Mine either,” Clint says. He stares down at his noodles and then looks Steve in the eye, cutting off the apology he’s trying to form. “But Thor’s great, right?”

“He’s impressive,” Steve says. “I think if he’d showed up in the 40s he might have been a contender for the Captain.”

“Yeah, the Nazis occupied Scandinavia too, sure,” Clint says, gracefully twisting noodles around his chopsticks and into his mouth, then continuing while he chews. “But Thor was kind of a dick before he had his come to Jesus moment.”

“Wait, how would that even work?” Steve asks, frowning at the reference. 

“Meaning epiphany, not religious conversion.” Clint waves a hand. “One ring to rule them all. If you believed in one dominant religion, you’d figure out ways to make it dominate.”

Steve shrugs, and spends a minute chasing vegetables and beef around his bowl. When he looks up, Clint’s gazing thoughtfully at the menu board. “Do you think it's a good idea?”

Clint blinks once, slowly, and looks over at him. “Steve, I don't know when this advice was invented but it’s generally recommended that you don’t talk about religion or politics.”

Steve snorts. “That was around when I was a kid. But I meant working for Tony.” 

“He’s not actually in charge there.” Clint waves a hand. “Hill’s the director of...lost super soldiers, I think. If you want to be clear about organizational structure.” 

“Fine, working for Stark Securities.” Steve pulls a face. 

Clint huffs a breath out through his teeth. “Honestly? I don’t know. You're obsessive, you go all in, so I have reservations on what this will do for you.”

“I’m obsessive,” Steve says. 

“Your current mission is to eat at every hipster establishment in Brooklyn, you said it,” Clint says, setting his chopsticks down along the centerline of his empty plate. “Not healthy behaviour.”

“I’m reconnecting.” 

“Unhealthy behaviour,” Clint repeats. “I get it, you went from surviving diseases, to fighting in the war to now. But we have this thing called free time now? And it’s excellent.”

“What, now I need a hobby?” Steve says. Pepper had said the same thing in relation to art and self-discovery. Maybe he should take the hints.

“Or something. Knit socks. Take up woodworking. Learn to code. Hell, I write a blog.” Clint shrugs. “Sometimes you need to shift your focus onto something safe to stay balanced.”

“So bomb defusion is out, then.”

“God yes,” Clint says, and shudders. “I tried to do that once, to help in the field. Found out I prefer working alone.”

“I've spent too much time that way.” 

“Maudlin,” Clint declares and gets up. “Come on, I think we deserve froyo.”

“Froyo?” Steve repeats, but obediently follows Clint’s lead. 

They find frozen dessert on their way back to Midtown. Steve tries three different flavours but settles for a mix of pineapple and raspberry. Clint has an inordinate amount of candied toppings on top of the apple pie flavour he'd tried to get Steve to order in the name of patriotism. It's a overflowing dish that takes Clint two hands to hold when they first start walking.

It makes Steve feel normal, 21st century normal, that he could be anyone with a weird friend lapping at a handheld mountain of frozen yogurt. In a city of millions, he's sure he's not the only one. 

“You went to 16 Handles without me?” Sam says in mock outrage when they come back into the Tower with the empty containers in hand. 

“How do you even know Midtown froyo,” Clint says, lobbing his cup towards the sink. 

Sam smacks Clint’s arm, throwing off his aim. “There's one in Maryland, dude. You don't have a frozen treat monopoly.”

“Oh I'm sorry, Maryland,” Clint says sarcastically. “I forgot the true centre of the universe.”

Steve leaves their bickering behind, taking the stairs up to his room two at a time. He sheds his disguise there, the glasses and the hat and the sweatshirt with SUNY stitched on the front. 

He goes back down to the main level and Clint and Sam have worked out their differences, watching some daytime tv show from opposite ends of the one couch. 

Tony is in the kitchen making the world’s noisiest smoothie when Steve comes in. 

“So Clint says you're now a history major,” Tony says, turning off the blender to inspect his progress. 

“Better than a history artifact,” Steve says mildly. 

Tony rolls his eyes and turns from the counter. “But SUNY, really? Not even CUNY?”

“It sounded pleasant, for my fake safety school.” Steve shrugs.

“Why do you know what a safety school is,” Tony snorts. He portions off his angry green smoothie into two glasses and passes one to Steve. 

Steve sniffs at it but waits for Tony to brave it first. 

Tony waves his cup at Steve. It sloshes alarmingly. “So, what, you’re going to quit saving the world for higher learning?” 

“I don't think so,” Steve says. He takes a tentative sip. It tastes earthy but not unpleasant. “I'm just trying to figure some stuff out.” 

“Well, if this keeps you off the streets,” Tony says. “The grand tour down memory lane isn’t good for you. You can’t move forward if you’re looking backward.” 

Steve opens his mouth to defend himself, to disagree with Tony’s assessment, but thinks twice about it. “For what it’s worth, I feel like this is forward movement.” 

“If you say so, Cap,” Tony says, and swans off to the lounge with his smoothie in hand. 

* * *

In a few words, Hill’s project is to help people to have their shit together in case shit hits the fan. Her words, not Steve’s. He was surprised at how salty her language is. 

Hill is surprisingly easy to work with, even if Steve hasn’t seen her much in the week since he started. She’d explained her program, given him a sparse outline about what he’d be doing, and left immediately after to head to a meeting. 

Steve’s been left mostly alone in his cubicle ever since with his data entry and analysis. He’d only fought with the computer the second day, when he knew his password was right and it took two tries to realize the caps lock was on. 

He's not completely inept with computers, not at the level that Natasha makes him out to be. There’s no way he can pretend to have Tony’s level of proficiency, not when he needs the physical tools—keys to press, screens to tap—to believe he's doing something with it. 

It amazes him sometimes, that he can ask it to find things and it actually looks. Better yet, the Jarvis-voice in his phone responds like a person when he asks questions. Having so much information at his fingertips is impressive, but it also reminds him of the dangers, of what might have happened with Project Insight if it had made it off the ground. Or what actually happened with Zola. 

Steve frowns and focuses on the file he’s in, away from whatever those thoughts would lead. He takes the applicants’ names from a spreadsheet to investigate each of them. There’s so much he can find online, on their accounts and profiles and work history. There's a similarity to the methodology that reminds him of espionage, but the application is appreciatively mundane. 

It’s like the search he did on Barnes. Steve can lose himself in comment threads and Facebook likes to find the ones who would work best together as a team, and who would challenge each other in the classroom setting. 

Each applicant is graded on the criteria Hill gave him and categorized according to anticipated roles in a critical incident response team. It relies a lot on his own inference. It’s obvious why Hill needed someone she could trust. 

Steve marks another person in the deliberate action category. He’s been referring to them as the Hulks in his head, an indulgence based off the way they’d structured during the alien attack.

Hill appears on the other side of his cubicle, headset in her ear. She holds up a finger when Steve opens his mouth to greet her. 

“No, that’s not acceptable,” she’s saying, eyes holding steady on Steve as she chews out whoever’s on the other end. It’s awkward. 

“I’ll wait until you fix it,” she says, and Steve thinks she’s going to stand there and do it with her eyes still locked on his, but she ends the call. 

“Did you have the beard on Monday?” Hill asks, running one hand down her jawline like Steve might be unfamiliar with a beard. 

“I did,” Steve says slowly. He doesn’t know Hill that well, and he’s unsure of how much sass he can give her. “It’s a new look.” 

“Huh,” Hill says. “I like it.” 

“Thank you,” Steve says. He’s in the same position he was in when she first stepped into his cubicle, one hand on the mouse and the other resting on the keyboard. He feels like he’s in an ad for office work. 

“Want to come meet Steve? I have to eyeball his material,” Hill says. Other Steve is going to be leading the program, a retired police officer who made a really ugly powerpoint presentation for his first class. 

“Sure,” Steve says, pushing back from his computer to join her. 

“Did you have a chance to look over his plan for the program?” Hill asks, pressing the button for the elevator with her thumb. 

“Somewhat,” Steve says, refusing to comment on the design even though it physically hurt to look at. 

“Good,” Hill says, leading him into the elevator and pressing the number for their floor. “I had a few questions myself about the direction he wants to take, and I wanted to get your opinion on him as a person, whether he’s going to mesh with the candidates.”

Steve nods, although he’s not sure what that’s worth. He does know that the job, the reason to take the elevator out of the upper floors of the Tower every day, was exactly what he needed. He also hasn't caught sight of Barnes since his last trip to Brooklyn, and doesn't spend his time at the desk thinking about him. 

“Steve, I’d like you to meet my right hand man,” Hill says, and it takes Steve a second to realize he’s the right hand man. 

Steve nods at the guy. Other Steve is a heavy-set white guy in his sixties, with handwritten papers spread all across the table in the conference room. 

“Director Hill,” he says, standing up from the table. He’s visibly irritated at their interruption but Steve isn’t sure why. “Did I know you were coming?”

“Just wanted to introduce you to my assistant. He’ll be your contact when I’m away,” Hill says. She has her arms folded over her chest, expression carefully neutral. 

“Sure,” other Steve says. He looks Steve over, and clearly doesn’t recognize him because he doesn’t say anything about America. 

“He’s also selecting the first candidates for the program,” Hill continues. “If you want any insight, he’ll be available.” 

“I will,” Steve says, and gets the other Steve’s full attention again. 

“I can’t imagine anything I’ll need,” other Steve says. He sits back down, clearly dismissing them both. 

“What’s the anticipated takeaway?” Steve asks, stepping forward to the papers on the table. He keeps his hands behind his back in parade rest so he won’t be as threatening. 

One outlines a scenario that screams Hill wrote it, but the recommended response is shoddy. There’s an accepted body count listed that Steve thinks is unreasonable, even with the scenario’s restrictions. 

Other Steve huffs out a sigh. “I don’t see how—”

“I’d actually be interested in that answer myself,” Hill interjects. “Takeaway?” 

“Leaving the decisions to those who are equipped to make them,” other Steve says finally, after a long enough pause to show he’s complying under protest. “We don’t need a bunch of cowboys thinking they can swan in and save the day.”

“Steve,” Hill says. “You’re training these cowboys on proper procedure so they can take the lead in responding. We can’t always wait for a specific commander to arrive.”

“Your line of command is the chief of police,” Steve says, looking up from another one of other Steve’s papers. “Always to the chief of police. What if the PD is unavailable? Who’s takes lead then?” 

Other Steve pulls it out of Steve’s line of sight. “That’s the ideal scenario.” 

“We aren’t dealing with ideal scenarios here,” Hill says. “Work on something less ideal.” 

Other Steve raises one hand in agreement, but has a stubborn look on his face that tells Steve it’s not going to be given much effort. 

Hill inclines her head, and she and Steve leave the room, retreating back to the elevator. 

“I’m going to have to fire him,” she says, reaching up to rub at one temple. “How did I hire such a jackass?”

“Some kind of prejudice,” Steve says, and shrugs when she looks at him sharply. “His prejudice, mostly, a retired cop who thinks other cops are infallible?”

“In-group bias,” Hill says, and snorts. “I half-thought you’d say I hired him because his name was Steve.”

“I can’t say we’re all great,” Steve says, “having only known myself. But I’m okay.” 

“Sweet Christmas,” Hill says. She closes her eyes. “What just happened?” 

“I think we just became friends,” Steve says. 

“Okay, friend,” Hill—no, Maria says. “What do I do with the first class when I have to fire the teacher?” 

“One Steve is as good as another?” Steve offers. He’s been thinking about how to work out Maria’s scenarios since he saw one. 

“Okay,” Maria says. “Let’s hear your lesson plan.” 

“Well, the most important thing is to identify a clear outset,” Steve starts, and they spend the rest of the day working out strategy and lesson plans for his takeover. Steve leaves the office late, but with a feeling like he’s making a difference. Improving emergency response can only be good for the city. He doesn’t even mind the idea that someone in the class might recognize him despite his beard. 

Even if he’s crossed off government stoolie and career soldier, teacher might be a potential career transition. He’ll wait on that until after he’s had his first training session. 

“Have you actually made a list?” Sam asks, when Steve takes the elevator back up the Tower after work. 

“Of what,” Steve says, staring at the contents of the fridge. There's a bunch of high carb options but he's craving something different. 

“Things you could be doing. Like an aptitude test.” 

Steve lets the fridge door drift shut. “No. Should I?”

Sam shrugs. “Might help the search?”

“Well, I want to be able to use this,” Steve gestures to all of himself, “What I've been given for the greater good.”

“Why do you think you owe anyone anything?” Sam asks. 

“You know, people keep asking that,” Steve says. It's becoming a recurring theme. Pepper, Sam, maybe Clint. 

“Think about it then. There's no single right way to use what you have,” Sam says. 

“Yeah, but I'd feel like flipping burgers could be a waste.” Although, Steve thinks after he pulls out that example, it could be good for dinner. 

“Not if that's what you dream of doing,” Sam says. 

“So I should put short order cook on the figurative list?”

“At least until you know your enhancements don't extend to kitchen skills.” Sam makes a gesture that could be holding a frying pan or tugging on a rope. Context would suggest the pan. 

Steve rolls his eyes. “You have noticed me staring at the pre-made meals in the fridge, right?” 

“Okay, so maybe culinary arts won't be the field you’ll find yourself in.” Sam pulls his phone out of his pocket to check the time, taking a step towards the pile of readymade meals they’ve already rejected. 

Steve's body is telling him it's nearly six, and past his usual dinnertime. “Not right now, I'm too hungry to discover my hidden depths. You wanna head out for something?”

“Do I want to watch you eat your body weight in pasta, of course I do,” Sam says. 

“Can I come?”

They both turn to see Natasha coming down the stairs. Steve didn't know she was back. 

“Of course,” Steve says and is only slightly taken aback when she walks right up and hugs him, with both arms, for a good three seconds. 

Sam looks at him, reflecting the same confusion Steve is sure is all over his face. 

“Hi?” He says to the top of her head

“Hi,” she says when she steps back. “I missed you.”

“Missed me less, obviously,” Sam says. 

“He has a beard now,” Natasha says to him. “Had to see what it's like.” 

“Through willpower alone, my patchy cheeks will sprout full coverage,” Sam promises. “Then we’ll see.” 

“You’re the one who thinks poor Steven wants to go out and eat  _ pasta,” _ Natasha says. “Not sure how I feel about you yet.”

“He’s the one asking for it,” Sam says. “Me, the one from DC. Finding a good place for food.” 

“You grew up in Harlem,” Steve snarks at him. 

“Well, I’ve got good timing, I'll save you both,” Natasha says. 

* * *

She sweeps them off to Brooklyn in a black-on-black SUV, despite Steve’s cautions of parking being the one thing he hasn’t been seeing much of on his travels. Sam drooled over her Corvette sitting next to the SUV, but considering Steve didn’t really want to have Sam sitting on his lap, they opt for the larger vehicle.

And because it’s Natasha, she finds a space on Columbia in Red Hook, near where it meets Commerce. Her place is a short walk from there there, on a corner where gentrification hasn't completely settled. It's a squat, red brick warehouse with a rollup service door painted with an American flag. 

Steve looks for the restaurant’s name or some indication of what Natasha’s brought them to. Finding nothing, he hurries to catch up to the door Natasha’s holding open for Sam. 

“What is this,” Sam asks. The restaurant’s interior is sparse, white-painted brick with high ceilings. Another flag is centered on one wall and long picnic-style tables lined up parallel to the flag’s stripes. 

“Real authentic bar-b-que,” Natasha says over her shoulder. There’s a long lineup down one side of the place from the counter, but she swaggers somewhere near the middle. 

Steve drops his shoulders, feeling more comfortable in the simple interior than he would have expected. There's the smell of smoke, layers of sweet and savoury, and the sharper smell of vinegar. Suddenly, it makes his mouth water. 

“Stranger,” Natasha says, reaching out to grasp the elbow of someone standing in line. He’s turned away, but when he shifts towards Natasha Steve recognizes Clint’s profile. Steve could have sworn he was still at the Tower when they left. 

“I'm sorry, do I know you,” Clint says, kissing Natasha’s cheek and letting her slide into the lineup beside him. They’re both wearing plaid, Clint in red and Natasha in blue. They could be any couple in Brooklyn with their skinny jeans and too-clean work boots. 

“This line is a good sign,” Sam says, shoving his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels to take it in. 

Steve isn’t so sure. It smells great in here, and he’s realizing that he’s hungry. They’d left in such a hurry he didn’t grab an emergency snack. 

“As long as Mister Rogers doesn’t try on his best impression of the Hulk,” Clint says, giving Steve a careful onceover. 

“You’re not you when you’re hungry,” Natasha intones, and laughs when Steve glares at her. 

“I should have pre-gamed with a snack,” Steve says. 

Clint stops short and turns an offended expression onto Steve. “Desecrate this occasion with a snack—have you never had barbeque before?” 

“Good ol’ Memphis-style bar-b-que,” Natasha amends, drawling barbeque in a way Steve didn’t know she could. 

“No?” Steve says. “Too busy punching Nazis?” 

“You poor child,” Clint says. “Prepare for an education.” 

“I was expecting something more...Russian, I guess,” Sam says. 

“Everyone always does,” Natasha says with a shrug. “But I have a varied interest in world cultures.” 

Steve likes that. He's glad she's back, not only because it means she’s safe. They have something in common on a basic level, both in but not of this world. Steve also thinks she’d be up for some exploring. 

When their turn comes, Clint and Natasha order trays with crispy ribs, sausages, and sides of cornbread and coleslaw to carry back to the tables. 

It is delicious, Steve realizes as he's barely into the first bite. It's both tender and crusty, and the flavour is intense. There's something decadent about so much meat on the tray. Steve still isn't used to this kind of abundance. 

Clint has several sauces for them to try, saying that they come from different regions, each with a different style of barbecue. Steve loses track of which one belongs to which state, but favours a sweeter sauce himself to offset the spices in the dry rub. 

“Never trust a place that sauces your meat for you,” Clint tells them, pointing at them with a rib in emphasis. “If you learn nothing else from me, remember that.”

“I would ask why not, but after this I don’t think I could do this another way,” Sam says. “If I get a chance this is gonna be a regular thing.” 

Natasha hums in agreement, picking delicately at her food. Her hands are just as messy and sticky as Steve's, a sign she's comfortable enough to relax. 

“My favourite,” she says, pointing at one of the thinner sauces. 

“Heathen,” Clint tells her. 

Steve snorts in amusement, even if he's sure hers is his second favourite. In retaliation, she forces the coleslaw onto him.

“But it's cabbage.” Steve wrinkles his nose and pulls away from the plastic forkful she holds out. 

“Don't be a child. It's not like what you ate before.” 

“I have a hard time with it.” 

“Try new things,” Natasha says evenly. “If you hate it, I'll finish it.” 

“She will too,” Clint says, along with a sticky-fingered sign that Steve doesn’t recognize. “Loves it. We go for Korean fusion and it's all kimchi. They put it right on your hamburger, it’s so weird.” 

“Not everything about the past is good,” Steve says, thinking the cabbage obsession is because Nat is Russian.

“It's not bad either,” Natasha says. “Build on your foundation, you coward.” 

“Fine,” Steve says and musters the courage to take a bite. It's not terrible but he can still feel the rubbery texture of cabbage he just can't get over. 

“Well?” Natasha asks. All of them are looking at him. 

“That’s a hard no,” Steve says, and can’t hide his smirk at co-opting that saying for himself. 

Natasha and Sam burst out laughing, but Clint stares at him in betrayal. 

“You can’t just—you aren’t supposed to talk like that, Steve!” He sputters. 

“I appreciate modern culture,” Steve says. “I’ve been told I can’t spend my life in the past.” 

Clint narrows his eyes, tilts his chin up. “I feel like you’re abusing a dear friend’s well-intended advice.”

“Who, me?” Steve asks. He takes another bite to look busy and because it’s delicious. 

“Don’t pull that faux innocent bullshit with us,” Sam says. “I know you’re a sly little shit.”

“So Steve,” Clint says, dragging the corner of Natasha’s tray closer to swap out the last corner of her cornbread for his coleslaw. “Busted any ghosts lately?”

“Ghosts?” Natasha asks Sam, who just shrugs. 

“No sightings,” Steve says. He drops an empty bone and picks up another rib. 

“Ghosts,” Natasha repeats, this time to Clint. 

“Or a guy in a coma,” Clint says. “Another legitimate possibility.” 

“Legitimate? Are you hearing yourself right now?” Sam says, shaking his head. 

“Actually, the supernatural is an integral part of the Russian belief system,” Natasha says. She punches Clint in the shoulder before turning her focus to Steve. “Maybe it’s a  _ domovoi, _ a protector.”

“With a message from the beyond,” Clint says, raising his hands and waving his sticky fingers mysteriously. “Live, Steve Rogers. Be your present self.” 

“That’s trite,” Natasha says, and starts the long process of cleaning off her hands with a tiny wet wipe. “But if you do get any advice from your ghost, take it.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Steve says. 

There’s been a steady turnover of tables since they’ve sat down. The lineup for food hasn’t receded yet, so they clean up their table and leave. Steve starts heading back in the direction of Natasha’s SUV but abruptly takes a side street when a sign catches his eye. 

“We’re losing Steve,” Sam says. “Is this cause for concern? Super-spies, anyone?” 

“Maybe he’s gonna bust some ghosts,” Clint says from behind him, then  _ ow _ a second later. 

Steve hopes Natasha belted him one. The name of the bar is familiar, one of the places where beer from the 107 Brewery can be found. Being this close to it so randomly makes it seem like an invitation. 

“Do you want to go to a bar,” Steve turns to ask Sam, and it’s loud enough that Natasha stops short too. 

“Who are you,” she says, smiling, but with an edge that Steve knows she’s suspicious. 

“Trying to live in the moment,” Steve says and doesn’t regret it, even when the bar looks emblematic of this new Brooklyn and out of Steve’s comfort zone. With exposed brick, finished wood on every surface, and red-shaded lights hanging down from the low ceiling, it does have some appeal. It’s also dark enough that it feels private. 

It has almost as many whiskeys on the menu as beers. Steve buys the first round, less one for Natasha; she refuses as she’s driving. He picks a mid-priced bourbon at random and hopes for his sake it tastes okay. He doesn’t drink to get drunk. 

The place is borderline too much for any of them, with its slight air of pretension and the feeling that everyone is there to watch everyone else. No one can quite relax. It’s like they’re just hiding in a place like this, waiting for someone to discover them. It’s a mutual decision to leave after two rounds because the later it gets, the bolder people will be. 

It’s a tactical retreat back to the street. Steve waves off Natasha’s ride home, instead walking to take the F train. 

He knows it’s just a book, but the idea of both choices being terrible reminds him of his current situation. He can’t just quit helping people, but he’s lost interest in being property, in being the hammer that destroys instead of builds. 

Steve pulls out his notebook, turning to a fresh page near the back to write it down. Hammer that builds. He hopes Thor doesn’t think he’s co-opting that, and scratches out the first part to leave builds. There, he can build. It’s a start. 

The train comes after a few minutes of waiting, and he takes a seat in a nearly deserted car. It’s late enough on a Thursday that there shouldn’t be many more passengers until they get closer into Manhattan. Steve doesn't mind the quiet, it gives him more time to think about potential careers for his list. 

Despite the emptiness of the car, someone sits down beside him after passing a few stops. He has his hood pulled up but doesn’t seem drunk or dangerous. Steve shifts, turning away while he adds a sketch of Mjolnir on the page opposite of his career ideas when he runs out of ideas irritatingly quickly. 

He's working on the shading—wondering if in fact he had managed to lift it that time at the Tower, if he'd have some weird space responsibilities along with the Captain America ones—when the guy shifts closer to peek. 

At least, that's what Steve thinks is happening. 

He freezes up, fingers clutched around his pencil until he catches sight of their reflection in the car’s window across from their seats. He knows that face. 

“So I've been seeing a lot of you lately,” Barnes says. “Not entirely on purpose.”

Steve doesn’t dare move. “New York must be a smaller city than I thought. Or you're just in the right places.”

“Not me,” Barnes says, mouth twisted into a grimace. “I’m nobody going nowhere.” 

“Mysterious,” Steve tells him. “That’s always intriguing.” 

“Almost like you're following me,” Barnes says. 

Steve shrugs at that. He feels like they’re having two different conversations again, but he has a better idea what Barnes’ conversation is about now, thanks to Sam. The two other people seated further down the car aren't casting him any weird looks, so Barnes must be an actual person he's talking to. Clint will be so disappointed that Barnes isn’t a ghost. 

Steve looks at Barnes’ reflection in the glass but can’t make out what he’s thinking. “Brooklyn was home, once upon a time.” 

“And yet you’re headed to midtown.” 

“So are you,” Steve says. “And how did you know?” 

“Maybe have googled you a little bit,” Barnes says. He tugs his hood down. His hair is shaded dark at the roots and fades to blond at the ends, pulled back into a tiny bun. 

“Googled me,” Steve says. He doesn't confess to doing the same thing before, because his search was embarrassingly thorough. 

“Stacked blond on the 4,” Barnes says. “Didn't take  _ that _ long to find you again, not with entire blogs dedicated to Steve Rogers sightings. You might not be the only one, but you are something special.” 

Steve flushes a bit at that, thankful again for the beard when he ducks his chin to his chest. He tries to ask, but has to clear his throat before he can. “Why were you looking?” 

“You made me curious,” Barnes says, looking sheepishly to the floor. “You looked like me.” 

“How?” 

“Disconnected,” Barnes says. He shrugs like it’s not important, shifting against the plastic seat. Steve feels like it is important, that there’s potential weighing down everything they say.

“I'm working on that,” Steve says instead. “Plugging back in.” 

“Maybe you shouldn't,” Barnes says. “I shouldn't even be here, talking to you. This is stupid.” 

“I don't care,” Steve says. “No one’s watching.” 

“Someone's always watching.” Barnes pulls his hood up again, curling his shoulders to change the shape of his silhouette like he's about to vanish. 

“Barnes—James?” Steve asks with some concern, putting a hand out but not actually making contact with his sleeve. 

Barnes sits up abruptly, leaving a gap between them. “How do you know that name?” 

“There was a report, I saw your face in the paper.” 

“Damn it,” Barnes says, shoving his hands into his pockets and looking ready to run. “I have to go.”

“No, don’t,” Steve says, edging to follow. “Let me go with you.”

“No,” Barnes wrenches his body away, like Steve had made contact, like he doesn’t notice the difference. The train is still moving and Barnes’ eyes are wild. 

“Listen if you need help, I can help you,” Steve says. He looks down at the other people on the car—one has headphones in, and the other pointedly looks at their phone. He’s not sure if either of them are what Barnes is clearly worried about. 

“Everything is fine,” Barnes says, and when the train finally slows to a stop at 34 Street and he gets up, Steve does too. 

“It doesn't seem fine,” he says, trailing after Barnes and keeping an eye on the curve of his shoulders. Steve still loses Barnes in the space between blinks, caught on the far side of the turnstiles. Struck with how quickly it happened, he takes a step back to get out of the way of a woman with a large bag, and then he’s alone. 

“Damn it,” Steve says under his breath, wondering if he should just walk home from here—but a hand grasps his elbow and tugs him backwards through a service door. 

Steve lets himself be tugged. 

Barnes looks different, less frantic here, in a long corridor dimly lit with emergency lighting. 

“You can’t just call me that in public,” Barnes says, voice even again. 

“Where is this,” Steve says. He looks for a sign or something he recognizes but can’t make anything out in this light. 

“I shouldn’t have talked to you,” Barnes says, huffing out a loud breath. “You’re too curious for a non-person like me.”

“So why did you?”

Barnes shifts. It could be a shrug. “I wanted to feel something like normal for once.”

“Well, this is kind of normal for me,” Steve says. Dark corridors, secret meetings. Average. “I thought you were a ghost, at first.”

“A ghost?” 

Steve shrugs, even if Barnes can’t see it. “Not like, dead. I was hoping like a coma ghost.”

“Like Bill Cosby? Reese Witherspoon?” Barnes laughs, voice echoing down the corridor. 

“Sure,” Steve says, making a mental note to check on that. 

“Thankfully, I’m still in my body,” Barnes says, “I’m just not living in the world anymore.” 

“It seems overrated,” Steve says. “I’ve been thinking I should wake up back in the 40s.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Barnes says. “I am a testament that we can never go back, only forward.”

“I keep hearing that,” Steve says. 

“But going forward doesn’t mean it has to be a vertical direction,” Barnes says.

“So horizontal,” Steve says, and is suddenly glad of the dark when Barnes makes an affirming noise that sounds intrigued, one that makes him flush. 

Outward, Steve thinks. Or upward, progressive. Any of those would have been a less loaded word choice. 

“Bucky,” Barnes says before Steve can blurt out more words to try and disguise his awkwardness. 

“What?” 

“You can call me Bucky,” he says. “My nickname. It’s safer now.” 

“Safer how,” Steve says. His voice drops and he takes a step closer, right into Barnes’—Bucky’s chest because he can’t really see where he is. Bucky makes a noise and steps back. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“I’m free as a bird down here,” Bucky says flippantly, then sobers. “I’m fine. When literally no one knows you exist, trouble can’t find you.”

“But I know you’re real,” Steve says. 

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Yeah, you could be trouble.” 

“So far, you’re the one finding me,” Steve says. 

“Let’s keep it that way,” Barnes says. “Keep your eyes open, I’ll find you in Brooklyn tomorrow.” 

“Can I get your number at least?” Steve asks, pulling his phone out of his pocket. It’s only when he turns on the helpful flashlight app that he realizes he’s alone. 


	3. Chapter 3

Sam passes on Steve’s 6am run the next day in favour of sleeping off the effects of going shot for shot with Clint and Natasha. Left unchecked by the limits of normal human stamina, Steve runs nearly fifteen miles before he remembers he’d promised to be early for training today.

There’s plenty of opportunity for Bucky to find him while he’s out, but there’s no sign of him. Steve finishes his cool down and goes to the Tower to get ready for work.

It's easier now than his first day, when Steve was convinced they'd either recognize him or laugh him out of the room—or both.

Nothing like that had happened. Steve ducks his head when he speaks and tries to remember to slouch to deflect any recognition. The beard definitely helps.

Steve’s most intense experience was the constant questions from Santiago, a police detective sitting in the first row, who'd answer them herself when she got nervous.

Everyone in the group is there because they want to be, ready to serve. Thanks to the analysis he’d done for Maria before, he knows who’ll challenge him on what he’s telling them, and which ones need to be pushed to ask the right questions.

They’re working through one of Maria’s scenarios right now to try and organize the right response to the emergency. One of the team has enhanced powers, but how they work with it is up to them. Steve’s about to throw an actual smoke bomb into the group to make it harder.

It’s chaos.

None of them saw it coming. It’s a good thing no one’s allowed to carry because there are a solid twenty seconds where they think it’s a real threat. Steve circles the group. He hadn’t assigned roles for this scenario, wanting to see how everyone works together.

Santiago’s the first one to realize it’s part of the drill. All trace of nerves gone, she starts barking orders to check for interference from the bomb and get back to work. Everyone listens, moving back into position despite the smoke still hanging in the room.

They have everything handled with reassuring competence. He’s content to stand back and watch them contain the situation, evacuating civilians and directing medical and defense as needed. They don’t rely on the guy with ‘powers,’ but don’t exclude him either.

The thought makes him pause. He has no desire to throw himself in the ring here and is actually observing the team without guilt. It's refreshing.

Steve runs them through another scenario before dismissing them for the day. They have the right idea when it comes to dealing with emergencies, and they are less afraid of working with someone with powers.

Maria sends him a text when he’s putting the room back in order, a single word: _bomb?_ He sends her back the shrugging emoji. It's been so much easier to use his phone since Clint introduced him to emojis, even if it gives Sam the squints.

He leaves a note in apology for the cleaners about the smoke residue that covers the carpet and tabletops.

If the rest of his programs are like this one, he'd be happy to run ops instead of going on them. He could just go in when he needs to, when he's best suited to handle it. After seeing what the team’s done this week, that might be less often than he'd first thought.

He leaves the building feeling good. It lasts nearly the entire three hours he spends waiting for Bucky to show, feeling increasingly like he’s been duped.

Steve lets himself back into the residential levels of the Tower that night, hoping to avoid talking about his disappointments by spending the night with his sketchbook. He finds a neat stack of Choose Your Own Adventure books outside his door. _To practice making choices,_ Natasha’s written on a piece of paper tucked inside one book. Steve laughs because he can take a hint, and spends the time when he isn’t sleeping with the books.

At first he tries to remember what decisions lead to what end, but there are enough twists and turns that there’s no clear point where everything goes wrong. He starts to enjoy the randomness of dying in the books, where untying the hostage seems like the right thing to do but turns out to be a terrible idea.

Failing so often is awfully freeing, making it matter less.

He teaches that lesson the next day, using a scenario Clint devised on the back of a paper napkin when they go out for gourmet hot dogs. Clint had called it a Kobayashi Maru and then instead of made him watch like four different spaceship movies.

It’s designed to fail.

Steve feels a touch of guilt that he’s making the group go through it, especially on the heels of the day before when their competence was so evident, but it’s an important lesson to learn.

He calls out details about how things progress, telling them when they lose a bus full of evacuated civilians and a road is no longer a viable route, when the suspect kills another hostage without warning. At that, Chen gets so frustrated he just goes to stand by the window and stare out at nothing for a while. Steve has to resist going over to ask how it’s going like he usually would, because this is all part of the exercise.

They do fail.

No one gets evacuated in time, no extra forces arrive, hostages are killed, and in Clint’s pièce de résistance: the suspect gets away.

They sit around in silence for five minutes afterwards before Steve asks how they’re feeling.

They’re feeling shitty, because they didn’t do their jobs.

Steve has to hide his smile as he gets up to speak. They’d learned the lesson, but he doesn’t want anyone to feel worse. “I don’t think I’m the first one to tell you this, or this will be the last time you hear it, but you are going to fail sometimes. You will work hard and do everything right, and people will still die despite your best efforts. Sometimes you’ll have to take the fall. It’s going to seem like things are stacked up against you. And to break it to you, here they were.”

The room erupts into mutters. Mahoney’s one of the loudest, saying he knew it was a Kobayashi Maru.

“Take this feeling and remember it. There was nothing you could have done differently to change the outcome,” Steve says, ignoring their comments as background noise. “You did well, you all failed, and life will go on.”

“This mean you’re grabbing a beer with us after today, professor?” McCreary asks.

Steve does go, at the end of day, and it’s interesting to see how they interact outside of the exercise. They seem to enjoy each other’s company, and Steve hopes whatever friendships exist here and in the classroom continue beyond the program.

He begs off a second round when someone offers, slipping out of the bar with the feeling the group has taken the lesson as intended. When he makes it to the street, he sets his shoulders and does not look for hipsters on his way back home.

Natasha's in the kitchen when he gets in, examining the newspaper with an unusual softness in her posture.

“So this is the guy,” she says, because of course she’s reading the edition from however many weeks ago.

“Yep,” Steve says. He goes to the fridge to pour himself a glass of orange juice, turning back to find her still looking at him, one eyebrow raised.

“He's...real,” Natasha says, setting the newspaper flat against the tabletop.

“Seems that way,” Steve says. He takes a long drink, keeping his eyes on Natasha as she does the same.

She waits until he’s lowered the glass before she continues. “This the reason you've been spending so much time in Brooklyn?”

“Yeah.”

“You think you gonna move there, cut down on the commute to your ramblings?”

“Not even sure he lives there anymore.” Steve shrugs, playing it off like it doesn’t matter.

“Steven,” Natasha says disapprovingly.

“He may or may not be living in tunnels under the F train,” Steve says finally. He doesn’t actually think so, but he doesn’t have much evidence to the contrary. He drinks more juice.

“Is he a mole person?”

Steve hesitates with the glass halfway raised. “I don't even know what that is.”

“Tunnel dweller,” Natasha says, leaning back in her chair. “Living below the surface, whole cities underneath ours.”

“It’s...possible,” Steve says thoughtfully.

Natasha laughs at him. “Only you could find someone as out of time as you are.”

“We call it disconnected.” Steve finishes his juice and opens the dishwasher to put the glass away.

“Whatever it is.”

“I think he has his reasons to be disappeared,” Steve says.

“Don’t say it like that,” Natasha says, wrinkling her nose. “Unless you’re going to do the accent.”

“We gonna disappear ’im,” Steve says, and they both burst out laughing at the absurdity of it. They’re still laughing when Tony comes into the kitchen, a stack of dirty cups in both hands.

“Do I feel left out of the super secret spy club,” Tony asks them, heading straight to the sink before Steve manages to clear his throat and he detours to the dishwasher.

“Steve’s super secret mole person boyfriend,” Natasha says. “Apparently the 1930s mob disappeared him.”

“Did someone sneak out on you by the dawn’s early light, Cap, do you need a shotgun,” Tony asks, working to get two cups unstuck from each other.

“Nothing like that,” Steve says. Natasha flicks her eyes towards Tony twice, meaningfully, and Steve frowns when he doesn’t get her meaning. Play along, maybe. “No shotgun, he just didn’t show when he said he would.”

“That’s called ghosting,” Tony tells him. “Maybe he’s not ready for all of you yet. You’re really intimidating, it can be off-putting.”

“I am not,” Steve says, but Natasha’s nodding along with Tony. “Am I?”

“To us mere mortals, perhaps,” Tony says, sweeping the room but shakes his head when he reaches Natasha. She’s obviously not included in whatever figuring he’s done.

“Thanks, I think,” Natasha says drolly.

Steve rolls his eyes at both of them and takes the opportunity to run up to his room and change out of the grad school costume into something more comfortable.

“No sweatpants!” Natasha calls up the stairs after him.

He rolls his eyes again, but obeys. He puts on jeans, a shirt that’s comfortably clingy in case Bucky does show up, and loops the glasses into the v-neck of his shirt. Coming back down the stairs, he finds Natasha with an oversized sweater pulled over her leggings and her hair pulled up into a knot on the top of her head.

“Acceptable,” Natasha says as she sweeps past him to the Tower’s front door. She’s made herself big in the way some of today’s women can be, her eyes and elbows taking up so much space that Steve feels like he needs to keep some distance.

Natasha apologizes when she realizes that Steve’s pressed against the wall of the elevator on the down way to the street. She shakes off whatever mode she was in, softening until he feels like he can stand next to her without it being a challenge.

“I wish I could do that,” Steve says as he follows her down the sidewalk.

“You have more than one setting yourself,” Natasha says.

“What, fuddy grandpa and costumed asshole?”

“Clever, but no,” Natasha says. She doesn’t say much else until they make it to Grand Central and are on the F train.

Steve keeps an eye out—not for hipsters, because that would be exhausting—but doesn't see any Bucky-like shapes anywhere.

“I don't want you to get tunnel vision with your mole man,” she says finally.

“You know, Clint said something like that,” Steve says.

“That doesn’t make it wrong.” She looks at him evenly, knowingly, and takes the lead again when the train slows to a stop.

They’re south of Cobble Hill when they climb the stairs back to street level to a soft rain. Natasha’s looking ahead, zeroing in on their next destination, when Steve thinks he spots Bucky waiting to cross the street. He’s wearing the hat again, with aviator sunglasses making Steve second-guess what he’s seeing.

Steve stills, enough that Natasha notices. She goes tense with awareness, waiting for Steve’s signal.

“There, that guy in the hat,” Steve says, staring intently at the side of the guy’s face and willing him to turn for a better look, to take off his sunglasses.

“Huh,” Natasha says thoughtfully. “You’re sure.”

“Not entirely,” Steve says, and when the guy starts walking, talking to the woman beside him, he knows it's not Bucky.

“Because I’m pretty sure that’s Hayden Christiensen,” Natasha says.

“Who?”

“An actor.” Natasha rolls her eyes. “Never mind. Can we go?”

“Sure, yeah,” Steve says, lingering a bit. At closer look, the actor’s resemblance fades.

“At least I know your type now.” Natasha says, leading them north to a place calling itself a beer garden, completely in English.

It makes Steve frown even as he follows Natasha inside to find space at the bar. She orders trays of beers, small glasses that come in a variety of colours.

“And you’re sure I shouldn’t run any facial recognition,” Natasha says. She selects a pale pilsner from her tray. Steve copies her. “I’m sure the station’s cameras picked something up.”

“It feels like cheating,” Steve says. The beer is light and crisp, with a surprising hint of sweetness. “He told me he’d find me, and if he didn’t, well?”

“Ghosts can’t tell time.”

“He’s not a ghost.”

“Says the only one who’s ever seen him.” Natasha points to the amber-coloured beer, one with a surprising smell of nutmeg, like the Christmas cakes he remembers from the years of plenty.

Steve wonders if that’s the way it is, if all beer is made to taste like something else now. “I talked to him on the subway, no one acted like I was sitting there talking to myself. I realize it’s New York and no one cares, but I think someone would have at least left the car.”

Natasha tips her head to allow him that one.

“I just feel like maybe he has a reason to be running low to the ground, and I shouldn't interfere with that.”

“As long as you're making room for yourself,” Natasha says. “Don't sell yourself short for a possibility.”

“Natasha,” Steve gets out, before she's pushing back from the bar with a muttered excuse over her shoulder.

He settles back onto the stool with his elbows protecting their half full trays, knowing Natasha well enough that she'll be back when she's good and ready.

The beer garden isn't that full, but enough people are clamouring for the bartender’s attention that Steve picks up the tray to head for an open table next to the wall. It’s another one of those places with tall tables and chairs, ones that make him feel on display.

It does mean Natasha will be able to find him, and for a second a warm body pressing against his arm makes him think she has already.

Steve turns but it's Bucky’s face that’s surprisingly close to his, tucked in next to him like he’s trying to hide.

“Hi,” Bucky says. His eyes search Steve's face for something, gaze softening when he finds whatever it is.

“Long time no see,” Steve says, wetting his lips. He’s tempted to reach for another glass to be casual about this, to pull his focus away from Bucky’s mouth being so close, but he’s not going to leave Natasha behind.

“About that,” Bucky says, and hesitates when he looks at the contents of the table. “You’re not here alone.”

“No, I’m with Natasha,” he says, and elaborates when Bucky frowns. “My friend, we’re out for drinks.”

“I can’t stay,” Bucky says. “But I wanted to get your number.”

“Could have asked when you were going to find me,” Steve says. “Two days ago.”

“I’m finding you now,” Bucky says, pulling a battered flip phone out of his pocket.

Steve presses his lips together.

“Come on,” Bucky says, eyebrows raised and trying to hide his grin. “I want to have a way of getting ahold of you.”

“I wouldn’t know what that’s like,” Steve snipes, but dutifully gives out his number when Bucky prods at his arm with the top of his phone.

“It’s not that I didn’t want to, something came up,” Bucky says, “but I will find you again.”

“Sure,” Steve says. “If you say so.”

“Steve,” Bucky says, but something must spook him before he can say anything else. There’s a sudden coolness at Steve’s side.

Steve doesn’t turn to watch him go, looking instead at Natasha’s progress from the back of the bar instead. She doesn’t let on any sign that she’s noticed anything unusual.

“So what next,” Natasha asks, reaching out to tap at the rim of the two glasses they each have left.

“I’m following your lead,” Steve says. “So lead on.”

“Famous last words,” Natasha says, but picks up her next glass.

Steve follows suit, thinking about Bucky instead of what he’s drinking. He doesn’t like feeling like he’s playing catch up, reacting to whatever move Bucky makes instead of taking the lead. He's not sure why this seems so strange—Peggy had made the first move, responding to Steve’s embarrassingly obvious regard.

“Pale ale, I think,” Natasha says, breaking the silence. “Yes, I think you're right.”

“What?”

“Well, you weren't making conversation, thought I'd take over.”

“Sorry,” Steve says. “Apparently I have more on my mind than I thought.”

“I'd be happy with a few tasting notes.”

“Oranges,” Steve says. It's not entirely accurate, not sour enough for that, but Natasha nods, and waves off his attempts to elaborate.

“You going to come out on the next mission?” Natasha asks.

“Maybe,” Steve says, replacing the now-empty glass on the tray. “If I take a vacation day.”

Natasha snorts. “This was so much easier when SHIELD was the one giving you a paycheck.”

“Except for the deception, I could have done without that,” Steve says.

“Same, believe me,” Natasha says.

“Maria’s good people, I can’t just bail on the program like that,” Steve says, lining up his empty glasses on the tray.

“Not even for a hypothetical Avengers-type emergency situation?” Natasha asks.

“Principle,” Steve says.

“Oh, of course.” Natasha rolls her eyes. “How can I come between you and your bff.”

Steve doesn't know what that means, but Natasha waves it off where he asks about it.

They decide to head back to the Tower when it starts getting busier in the bar and Steve gets jostled enough that he starts getting paranoid.

Natasha's quiet on the way back, thoughtful, and Steve stops trying to make conversation before they've left Brooklyn.

His phone buzzes just before he loses service in the tunnel. It’s an unknown number that just says _hi._

Steve doesn't try to hide the fact he's glad for proof that Bucky exists, even if it's from a burner that could very well be pitched by the time he texts back.

“Text him back,” Natasha says to the front of Steve’s shirt, where he's tucked the glasses back in.

“Like what?”

“I'm not being your Cyrano,” Natasha says firmly, but relents when she looks up. “Try great to see you again, let's get together sometime. I'll be going to the food truck festival next week, you should come find me.”

“Yeah, sure.” Steve says. Her suggestions aren't completely terrible, even if Bucky doesn't respond to any of them.

Steve tries again over the next few days. He gets no response to anything he sends. A simple hi, nothing. He texts him about this amazing sandwich he gets at a deli when he goes downtown, waiting around to see if Bucky might show up. He doesn’t, but it was a really good sandwich. A question about how Bucky’s day is going or if he wants to meet up later, and he doesn’t even know if it’s being read. Even he knows that Bucky’s phone is ancient.

What he doesn’t know is why Bucky would want a way to get ahold of him if he wasn’t going to use it, or why he can’t let this go.

It’s obsession, plain and simple. Steve knows it, that looking for Bucky whenever he’s out in the giant city of New York isn’t normal. But the want is settled in his chest from the way it feels like Bucky chose him. Something resonates between them, something that feels right, so in the same way Steve chooses Bucky.

* * *

* * *

 

The team goes on a two-day field trip with Maria’s assistant on Tuesday, leaving Steve free to start looking at the next cohort for the program.

It means a lot of time online, and Steve gets a couple of hours in before he stops reading correctly and decides to take a break for lunch. Steve would normally duck up to his desk for half an hour of freedom from Santiago’s questions, but he has no reason to be back so soon today.

It’s a nice day outside, and he takes his sketchbook with him as he heads south with ideas of sketching architecture. He’d had to retire the notebook last week when he’d used the final page to draw his grocery list. Now he has blank pages to work with and it’s intimidating.

He heads in the direction of the Chrysler Building, sketchbook tucked under one arm. He hasn’t explored as much in the area surrounding the Tower because of the higher chance of being recognized. Today he thinks he'll slip through unnoticed, with dark jeans and a gray shirt that means he looks like anyone else on the streets.

His stomach grumbles when he's about to stop and find a place to sketch, so he keeps walking until he finds himself outside a cafe that could be promising.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, so Steve stops to check it before he goes in, wedging the sketchbook into his armpit so he can can use both hands. It’s nothing, just a text from Sam about whether he’s up for sparring that night. Steve’s always up for a fight and doesn’t bother sending more than the swole emoji in reply.

He slips his phone back into his pocket aware that eyes are on him, and looks to see Bucky staring at him from beside a bike rack, right hand clenched in a fist.

“Hey,” Steve says, turning to face him.

It takes a moment too long for Bucky to respond, but he manages to shake off the stillness. One side of his mouth tips up in something like a smile. It looks almost natural, with shades of the guy who was definitely flirting with Steve that first time on the 4 train.

Steve gestures at the cafe with his sketchbook, one hand still slipped into his pocket, around his phone. “You gonna join me?”

“Thinking about it,” Bucky says, knocking his elbow into Steve’s when he comes close enough. “You mind?”

“I spent my morning alone in a room with reports,” Steve says, ducking his head as he smiles. “I do not mind at all.”

“Sure,” Bucky says. He goes to lower his hood before hesitating and dropping his hand. His hooded sweatshirt is forest green, a switch from the black he's worn before. “It’s a nice day, get it to go?”

“Alright,” Steve says, handing Bucky the sketchbook so he’ll have both hands free for his order. “Hang on to that for me?”

Bucky looks at it like it’s a foreign object, but he doesn’t drop it.

Steve takes that as a good sign, and steps into the restaurant to get sandwiches and coffees to go. He’s not sure what Bucky likes, so he gets a couple different kinds and hopes he isn’t vegan.

“You have any preferences? Allergies?” Steve asks when he steps back out to the street.

Bucky looks up from inspecting the two paltry drawings Steve has in his sketchbook. The drawings are of a tree and the lounge in the Tower, nothing personal, but Bucky looks oddly guilty.

“No,” he says finally, fumbling with the sketchbook as he tries to take the coffee Steve holds out in the same hand. He finally tucks the book underneath his left arm, cup held securely in his right.

“Uh, good,” Steve says. They fall silent, aimlessly starting to walk down the street but bearing east.

“So you’re trying art?” Bucky says, tapping the bottom of his cup against the spiral binding of the sketchbook.

“Trying to,” Steve says. It’s hard to find time for it, but having the sketchbook feels like a step in the right direction. His two drawings are proof.

“You finding your way in the world?” Bucky’s careful as he walks, slipping through people who don’t even notice he’s there. Steve feels like a barge in contrast, breaking people apart to find his way through.

Steve shrugs. “Gotta get into it somehow.”

“I didn't,” Bucky points out, knocking his right side into Steve’s left. “But I can't say what I'm doing is recommended.”

“What are you doing?”

“You've been over there, in other places,” Bucky says. It's a statement, but Steve nods yes anyway. “You feel like you didn't fit anymore coming back?”

“Of course,” Steve says. Maybe more so in his case, with the extra distance of seventy years.

“There were things I loved that I couldn’t remember.” Bucky flips his thumb at the edge of his cup’s lid. “And even worse, the dreams I still had, like this one of owning a business, they weren’t enough anymore.”

“And this is?” Steve asks, slowing as they come to a red light at the intersection. The streets around here are too full of people for him to think Bucky would want to stop there, but he’s not sure what’s ahead but stores and offices.

Bucky waits until they cross the street before he answers. “It's easier. No one expects anything. No one cares.”

Steve makes a face. “I don't think I have that. People care too much about what I do.”

“Luckily, I could vanish into the mist.” Bucky raises his cup and it nearly sloshes onto the sidewalk. Steve steps to the side so Bucky can move with him and won't gesture his cup right into someone.

“Was meeting me a sign? You could help me vanish, or I could help you back into sight?” Steve says.

“Naw,” Bucky says, nudging Steve to turn left when he'd keep going straight. “I can't. But I saw you and felt like we were kind of the same. Being on the outside together, maybe we could find that in common. I couldn’t ignore that.”

They circle the green space around an office building, and when Bucky slows Steve takes the opportunity to touch his arm. He waits until Bucky looks at him. “Thank you, for taking that chance.”

Bucky bites his lip and points out the entrance to the office building up ahead. “I want to show you something.”

“Okay,” Steve says, and follows Bucky past brick support posts and the building’s glass exterior, then into what should be an office lobby.

Instead, it's an indoor garden, air fragrant with the rich smell of dirt and plants.

“This is one of my favourite places,” Bucky says, pulling him along a pathway, around a fountain and down a narrow walkway encroached by the plants on either side, next to an actual tree growing indoors. Bucky fusses a bit to find the space he’s looking for, like a dog trying to lay down.

“What is this place?” Steve asks, as he waits for Bucky to find what he’s looking for.

“Indoor garden,” Bucky says, pushing away a branch that's hanging in front of his shoulder. He sets his cup down and sits on the ground, one leg curled underneath him. He slides the sketchbook out from under his arm and offers it to Steve.

Steve follows suit to the ground, accepting the sketchbook. Miraculously, his pencil is still tucked into the spiral. “This just exists?”

“It's a mystery,” Bucky says. “But it's one of my favourite places. No one really bothers with it but it's so quiet.”

“Thank you for sharing this,” Steve says, pressing two fingers onto Bucky’s knee. It’s amazing that this exists, that anyone could just step inside and see a makeshift forest anytime they wanted.

“Well, it's a good place to hide,” Bucky says. “Figured you could use one of those.”

“I could,” Steve says. He wants to promise he’d talk to Tony, ask if he knows of something or can have something added to the Tower, but something in Bucky’s face makes him stop. “I could use one.”

Bucky half smiles, looking at the stone beneath them.

“Well,” Steve starts, searching for a way to change the subject. He doesn't want to ask if Bucky's afraid of being dragged back into the world, because it’ll lead to an awkward conversation about what being around Captain America actually means. Those who care will eventually notice Steve’s beard, and try to fill in the blanks around him. “I read about going off the grid, they said you should find a place no one knows you. But you stayed here, missing persons report and all. Aren’t you afraid of being found by the police?”

“I can’t leave,” Bucky says simply, like it should explain everything. It doesn’t, but Steve nods all the same. “It's a part of me, you know what that's like.”

“It’s changed, but at the same time, it really hasn’t,” Steve says.

Bucky nods. “Tell me about it.”

“You noticed it too, when you came back?”

“Grew up here, spent a few years away.” Bucky says, holding his fingers slightly apart to show the difference between his lost time and Steve’s. “When I was—in the desert, thought I was gonna die just from all the space.”

Steve laughs. “For me it was the trees. Never seen anything quite like that before. Not a brick to be found.”

Bucky shrugs with one shoulder, pressing at the fabric over his knee, the same spot Steve had touched. “Had to come back, though. For all the shit that changes, it’s still home.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. Even as different as it is now, after the some seventy years he’d been gone, he has to agree.

“Besides,” Bucky says, face lighter when he looks up, like Steve's in on the secret. “It’s easy to disappear in a city if you know how.”

Steve relaxes a bit, letting his spine settle into a curve. “And you do?”

“I do,” Bucky says with a smile that crinkles up his face. “You never see me coming.”

Steve allows him that one, returning the smile. “I feel like it’s easier to be found now.”

“The world does make it harder to disappear,” Bucky says. He shifts a bit against the hard floor. “But it’s not impossible.”

“I’d be happy with blending in.” Steve sighs, waving at himself. “I’m not exactly standard issue.”

“There _are_ other blond guys in New York,” Bucky says. “I found you, but I had a reason to.”

“No, the Captain America thing,” Steve says, and Bucky shows absolutely no sign of recognition. “You didn't know that?”

“Google told me, but it wasn't the first thing I noticed about you,” Bucky says.

“Really?”

Bucky shrugs, picking at his sleeve. “Wasn’t here when you came back to fight aliens. Didn't really care when I got back.”

“Well,” Steve says, but what he was going to say doesn't really work anymore, not if Bucky doesn’t know what’s been happening in the world. “I used to feel like I had a calling, that I belonged to this agency I worked for. But then they went belly up, and I didn't know anymore. I wasn't sure what there was left for me. I just felt like I was faking it and hoped someone would notice.”

“That’s the way I felt,” Bucky says. “I wanted be okay, so I tried to be okay until I couldn't anymore. And now I’m here, trying again.”

Steve’s flattered, reaching out for Bucky’s hand, still worrying the cuff of his sleeve.

“You made me want,” Bucky says.

“ Want what?”

“My life before,” Bucky says, turning his hand in Steve’s to link their fingers. “You know. Craft beers and record players, actual weekends with people who know me.”

“Doesn't seem unreasonable,” Steve says. It sounds pretty nice, actually.

“Sure,” Bucky says. He rolls his shoulders and takes his hand back. “Worst you have to worry about is being recognized.”

“What's your worst?” Steve asks, and can actually see Bucky shut down.

“I have to go now,” Bucky says. He stands in one smooth motion, picking up his empty cup to toss it into a nearby garbage can. He raises one hand in a casual salute goodbye as he slips past a row of plants toward the place they came in.

Steve watches intently, but Bucky still seems to disappear into thin air, standing in front of him one second and no sign of any forest green sweatshirts the next.

* * *

The group comes back from the trip with reports of how what they’ve been taught works in the field, or in this case, a secret facility in upstate New York. There are a few points where they don’t feel fully prepared to work with non-traditional organizations or individuals, but Steve isn’t about to call Tony down to let the group practice. It would devolve into either a photo op or a name-calling session. Steve would put money down on either in equal odds.

Thursday is the last day for the program, at least before Steve starts it all over again with the new team on Monday. He asks them to give some feedback about how it went, if they’d felt training was unfairly weighted in one area. Chen asks if there really is a scenario based around ghosts, and if that’s going to be in a part two. Steve really needs to ask Maria how she thinks up these scenarios.

He graduates them with a handshake and a collection of emails for the signup of part two that Santiago collected presumptuously. Steve accepts the list with a promise they’d be the first ones to know about it, and starts thinking about whether it’s a good idea to do. It might be, if the city of New York wants to be prepared and ready to respond to anything that comes at it. After aliens, not much would surprise him.

Steve mentions it to Maria when he stops by her office to tell her they passed and hand over copies of their forms for her own records.

“Good,” she says, setting her pen down. She’s handwriting things instead of using the tablet sitting beside her. Grocery list or Stark secrets, it could be anything she doesn’t want to share with Tony’s curiosity. Steve has no illusions about his own privacy, that Tony doesn’t know exactly what he searches at night when he can’t sleep but at least he doesn’t bring it up. “This is good for you, you look alive.”

“I really enjoyed the smoke bomb,” Steve admits. “Might deploy it earlier on the next group.”

“Word might get around,” Maria says. “I’ll approve anything to keep them on their toes.”

“Will do,” Steve says, and spends the rest of the afternoon researching the pool of applicants for class three.

It’s nearly six when he surfaces, finishing putting together the first day packages for class two on Tuesday, and an ad on the dummy Facebook account catches his eye. There’s an open door event at Bucky’s old brewery in Red Hook that night.

Steve decides to hit the streets to try and find some answers. Whether it’s early or late, no one’s around on the living levels when he runs up to change his shirt. The lights are on in Tony’s workshop, but Steve isn’t about to disturb him.

He takes the F train to Red Hook, getting out at the Carroll Street station to walk the rest of the way. He finds the brewery just on the other side of the expressway, a nondescript gray warehouse building with the rolling shutter door pulled up to reveal the interior.

It’s pleasantly crowded inside, with painted concrete and plenty of beer to be had. Steve gets served quickly by a tall, thin man with wire-framed glasses and suspenders at the taps. It still surprises him, how many people try and relive the past through their clothing. Tonight the look is farmhand speakeasy. Steve fits in with his glasses and beard but still feels like people know he doesn’t belong.

Steve finds a seat at the end of one of the tables they’re using for the bar tonight. It’s an old wooden door with sawhorses for legs with a great view of the crowd. He loses a couple of minutes to thought and downs half of his beer. It’s decent if a bit bland.

A woman sits down on the stool across from him, bringing him back to himself. He recognizes her as the owner.

“Just pretend I’m answering questions you have about the place,” she says, raising one hand to push at her cheek. Steve recognizes the need to relax strained muscles from being polite. “I need like, four minutes where no one needs me to be pleasant.”

“I won’t ask you to do that,” Steve says, struck a bit by how much she looks like Bucky around the jaw and cheekbones, even if her eyes are brown and her nose thinner. They could be related.

“Thank you, god amongst men,” she says. She looks at him again, and must trust him enough or be tired enough to let things slip. “I get that it’s necessary for promotion, right? But I’d kill to leave that end of the business to my husband.”

“Your husband?” Steve asks. He looks down the bar to the guy in suspenders.

“Oh shit, you didn’t think I was flirting, did you?”

“No,” Steve says. “I’m, uh, interested in men now? So I would hope you weren’t.”

She waves a hand in thanks, and doesn’t comment on the clumsy way Steve’s still working on how to tell people that.

“You’re the owner,” Steve affirms, trying to remember if her last name had been on the article or somewhere else he’d creeped online.

“Yes,” she says carefully, sitting a bit straighter. “Are you a reporter?”

“No, I just saw you online,” Steve says, “but I had a couple of questions.”

“If this is about my brother again,” she says and stands up from the stool she’s been perched on. She isn’t very tall.

“Your brother,” Steve says. Some pieces fall into place even as others come up, like how Bucky can be so close to his family but still disappear. “Bucky’s your brother?”

“Bucky—oh,” she says, sitting down again. It’s like his nickname is a secret password. “So you know him?”

“I know him at least well enough to know he doesn’t like James. I’m Steve,” Steve says.

“Well, I’m his sister Becca,” Becca says, and shakes his hand. “We were also partners in the 107, before he left. I kept telling the cops he was fine, but...”

“But it’s been three years,” Steve finishes.

“I kind of thought he’d be back by now,” she says with a sigh. “How long has it been since you’ve seen him?”

“It doesn’t feel like three years,” Steve hedges, because he doesn’t want to tell Bucky’s sister he’s been seeing him somewhat occasionally, when she likely hasn’t seen him in years.

“It never did,” Becca says. “Even before he joined the army, he’d be gone for like, weeks at a time, and it was always like he’d never left.”

“He was in the army?” Steve asks, feeling another part of the puzzle take shape. He feels a touch of guilt for finding this one from Bucky’s sister, when Bucky had obviously avoided saying anything about it.

“How exactly do you know him, that you don’t know about that,” Becca asks.

“We’re kind of dating, I think, but we just met,” Steve says, dropping his voice and leaning in. As he does, Becca’s husband shoots them a sharp look and he shifts towards them even as he pours another pint.

“You just, oh,” she says slowly in realization, looking at her husband and signalling something. She gets up from her stool, and comes around the counter to take Steve by the elbow. She’s really small, barely coming up to his shoulder, but Steve lets her drag him along, into the darkened back part of the brewery.

“So you’ve seen him recently,” Becca says, flipping on a light. They’re in the heart of the brewery now, standing among the vats he’d seen online.

“Starting to,” Steve says. “Not that it’s a choice. I just feel like I only get half the picture when we talk.”

“That’s Buck all right,” Becca says. “He went on these assignments, over there, but he didn’t talk about whatever they were. So when he came back, he didn’t come back all the way.”

“I get that impression,” Steve says, to himself and to Becca. “So he left again?”

“He told me he had to go away because this was too much,” Becca says, searching for something on the cluttered desk in the corner next to a stainless steel vat. “I kind of thought he’d have worked through things by now. It’s been three years.”

“Same as me,” Steve says, forgetting for a second that Becca has no idea who he really is. “It takes...a while.”

Becca hands him a picture, edges curled with age. She and Bucky look happy in it, and even if he’s in fatigues he’s missing the edge he has now. “This was just before he deployed in 2008, before he was taken captive.”

Steve’s fingers tighten on the picture. “He was a prisoner?”

“For nearly two years,” she says. “They didn’t tell me exactly how long, and Bucky couldn’t remember when he came back. He wasn’t ready to just slide back into this life, not then. And I’m telling you this because I don’t think he can, and you should know.”

“I appreciate you taking me into your confidence,” Steve says.

“I just want him safe,” Becca says. “I was the one who reported him, when he first disappeared. He came back to tell me not to worry, he was going to find himself again. So you need to promise to let him do it, and don’t make him do anything he doesn’t want.”

“I won’t,” Steve says, and hands back the photo. She looks like she still needs it.

“Thanks,” she says, and sets her shoulders. “I need to get back up to the front. Will you have a drink on me?”

“I can,” Steve says, and takes a stool against the wall for another beer. Becca joins her husband in working the counter for the bigger crowd that’s appeared since they slipped into the back, and she’s too busy working to notice when Steve slips out.

He heads to the street and back underneath the expressway. It's gotten darker since he's been inside the brewery, but not enough that Steve won't enjoy walking a bit before giving in to the subway.

Although the Tower is conveniently placed for his job and for getting to know his new teammates, it’s kind of out of the way to explore Brooklyn the way he wants. The distance might have been on purpose at first, living in gloriously unfamiliar Midtown and far away from what his mind kept telling him he should know.

Now that he's getting to know it again, he can see how it's always going to be the same place. The city of constant change, clinging to the old as it embraces the new. More people fill the streets that were once home to manufacturing and portage jobs to find art, music, food. The cultures shift as people move in and move on, bumping against each other to create something different but welcoming as he rediscovers it.

Steve cuts down an alley behind some more modern buildings, angling to find the station near MetroTech a little faster. He slows when he sees someone behind him, trying to see them without letting on that he's suddenly on alert.

It's Bucky stalking towards him, eyes angry and hair catching in the breeze. His hood’s down for once, maybe because it's dark.

“Hey,” Steve gets out, before Bucky's right in front of him and crowding him backwards, herding him to the yellow painted steps of a loading dock.

Steve doesn’t push back, goes easy and lets himself be maneuvered back until they’re just inside the building’s shipping door. It’s like Bucky has an instinct for these kinds of places, private and quiet and accessible.

“What the hell were you thinking,” Bucky says. He retreats now that they’re off the street, stepping away until his back is against the wall with a greasy bulletin board and a timecard punch. It’s a small space; he doesn’t have far to go.

“What, I don't know,” Steve says, pulling his hands out of his pockets and holding them up in an attempt to diffuse the sudden tension.

“You went to see my sister,” Bucky spits out, chest heaving as he breathes in angrily. “I left those things behind, I left her. I'm _buried._ What is so hard to remember, what don’t you get about someone's always watching?”

“I just went to see the place. I didn't even plan to talk to her,” Steve says, wondering if Bucky’s been following him or if it’s just coincidence.

“Like hell,” Bucky says. He pushes off the wall and paces, short steps in a small space. “I told you I left everything. That wasn’t a hint for you to go find it. I can’t believe you’d stick your fucking nose in it.”

Steve feels frozen, hands still held up between them. Finding out a few stray details isn’t worth a betrayal, and Steve has a sinking feeling in the bottom of his stomach that he’s ruining this. “Sorry, I didn’t think—”

“No, you didn’t,” Bucky cuts him off. He opens his mouth to say more, but something on the ceiling catches his eye, like a security camera. He turns to punch the button for the freight elevator, silent as it rumbles down towards them.

“I shouldn’t have gone to find your sister without asking first,” Steve says finally, to Bucky’s back. “I’m sorry, I should have thought of what you wanted, instead of me.”

The elevator’s scuffed doors open and Bucky steps inside, obvious enough about it that Steve figures he’s not unwelcome to follow. A smell like ripened fruit clings to the blankets that line the elevator.

“This isn’t going to work,” Bucky says, facing the other door at the far end of the elevator. He sounds disappointed, holding the back of his neck like he’s trying to protect himself. “Not if you can’t leave my secrets alone.”

“I can do that,” Steve says, scared at the thought of losing Bucky over something stupid. “Don’t let me being an idiot ruin this. I won't even talk about you to anyone if you want, I like you, Buck, I don't want you to disappear on me.”

“You have to let me be,” Bucky says, frustrated, turning to force Steve back against the wall. The elevator doors drift shut. “You can’t snoop, you can’t investigate, your famous friends can't spy on me.”

“Okay, okay,” Steve says, feeling desperate. It's not just wanting to get to know him, that Bucky gets something about how Steve is just drifting through modern times, but something else under that where Steve just likes him. Steve reaches up to grab at Bucky's arms but Bucky steps back again. “Nothing, I promise, I won’t even ask questions.”

“No, just,” Bucky closes his eyes. “You can't push this. You have to let me do what I can.”

“Okay,” Steve says. “Okay.”

Bucky opens his eyes and takes two steps forward, slow and deliberate. Steve lets himself get pushed back against the elevator wall again, hands pressed to the blanket so he doesn't try to reach out to touch Bucky when he clearly doesn't want it.

Bucky presses one hand to Steve's beard, against his cheek, pulling his face down and then they're kissing, close mouthed and chaste.

Steve inhales in surprise at the heat of Bucky’s soft mouth, clenching his hands into fists so he won't reach out to pull him closer.

“Yes,” Bucky says against his mouth, pressing his hips against Steve's in invitation.

With permission Steve lets his hands find Bucky’s hips, pulling his body closer so they can sink into each other, kissing hungrily. Bucky slides one leg between Steve's to get closer, heavier than Steve would expect. His thumb strokes over Steve's face, and Steve can't control how much he _wants,_ on the heels of thinking he might have lost Bucky.

Steve shifts one hand from Bucky’s hip to the bottom of his sweatshirt, curling into the bottom of the fabric to pull him in. Two of his fingers graze bare skin, making Bucky inhale sharply and pull back, then lean in to press his lips against Steve’s once more, like a promise.

“Okay,” Steve says again.

“Ever since I saw you in that crowd, I liked you. I wanted to have this,” Bucky says, stroking his thumb over Steve's cheek. “I can't tell you all my secrets, but we can be together.”

“Buck,” Steve says, licking his lips. “I would want you even without this, even if we just spent time in this elevator. We can work together to figure out something that works, if you want that.”

“I want this to work,” Bucky says and steps back to hit the elevator button to open the doors. The loading dock looks different now.

“Meet me tomorrow,” Steve says, desperate not to let Bucky blow him off indeterminately. “Name the place, I can be there. Just nowhere in a basement, someplace we can go like normal people.”

“I'm not normal people.” Bucky smiles but doesn't look like he's just offering a hookup in lieu of a relationship. It's progress. “But there's a bar in Williamsburg, with a rooftop.”


	4. Chapter 4

The rooftop bar is actually another secret, Steve finds out. The place Bucky sends him to is next to the rooftop bar, a divey place with beers sold still in the bottles. 

He orders two beers, texts Bucky, and follows his instructions to go to the bar’s side door, where one flight of stairs goes down to the basement bathrooms and the others go up to the higher floors, eventually leading to the roof.

“The secret rooftop bar isn’t a bar at all,” Steve says, when he pushes open the door to a little roof space protected by a three-foot parapet. Bucky’s waiting for him, sitting in the corner of the roof with sightlines to the door. 

“Well,” Bucky says, getting to his feet. He jerks his thumb towards the roof of the rooftop directly besides them, which is a bar with those little string lights and greenery and people and noise. “I prefer the privacy.” 

“It's definitely secluded,” Steve says, offering one of the beers to Bucky when he gets close enough. 

Bucky ignores the bottle, stepping into Steve’s space to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

“Hi,” Steve says, not able to keep from smiling. “Come here often?”

Snorting, Bucky picks his way across the roof to a space hidden from first sight, behind the door offering access to the lower floors. It’s not much more than a plastic looking rug with mismatched cushions, but it looks comfortable enough when Bucky sinks down into the space, legs stretched out before him. 

The twinkling lights from the neighbouring bar are still visible from here, with muted music in the background. Steve sits down on Bucky’s right, setting both bottles on the ground beside him. 

“Privacy for me, no recognition for you,” Bucky says. 

“Sure,” Steve says. It's true, he doesn't have to worry about a repeat of the whiskey bar. If he wasn't with Bucky he might worry about getting lonely in all this space. “My favourite part of Avenger parties are when everyone else leaves and we're just hanging out by the end.”

“What's that like, hanging with them?” Bucky leans back against the brick wall and the cushions, resting one knee against Steve’s thigh. 

“Kind of regular,” Steve says, dropping his hand to Bucky's leg. “Mostly people.”

“Mostly,” Bucky snorts. “No weird stuff?”

“One calls himself a god and that's only Tony,” Steve says, frowning at the way it makes Bucky stiffen up. “Sorry, is that too weird?” 

“He's a billionaire,” Bucky says, and that's really enough to explain it. “Tell me more about Thor?”

“Well,” Steve says, taking a drink from one of the beers. The motion makes him slide closer, enough that Bucky goes unnaturally still, like he’s holding his breath. Steve retreats, straightening his posture so they only have the one point of contact. “He's very tall, taller than me even. I didn’t expect that, or the cape.”

That makes Bucky laugh. “Saw him on the news once, from that thing in New Mexico, he seemed so majestic.”

“Sometimes it’s just like talking to some big guy from Sweden, until he talks about outer space,” Steve says. “He’s more lost with pop culture than I am.”

Bucky leans into him after a second, pressing their shoulders together. “You’re not so bad.” 

“I'm trying to catch up,” Steve says. “It's slow going. The food though? So good.” 

“Media doesn't really matter, there are always more movies you'll miss out on.” Bucky shrugs into Steve’s arm. “I don't have the attention span to sit around that long.” 

“Too bad, I would have figured movies would be easy to sneak into.”

“This is not just sneaking,” Bucky says, offended. “This is an art, discovering where you can go that no one cares.”

Steve is skeptical that people are so trusting, that they just don’t ask questions, and tells Bucky as much. 

Bucky digs an elbow into Steve’s ribs and continues. “Like here, the people at the bar won't know we don't live here. If we tried to break into their party, sure, they’d notice. But there are a lot of places where people don't know any better if you look the part.”

“So you can just walk right in?”

“Can't you?” Bucky says. “In a uniform, confident, people listen to you. It's a dangerous thing, I could get in anywhere with the right costume.”

“Should I be worried? You a secret operative, a spy?” Steve laughs, but something about the way Bucky’s sitting makes him feel like he shouldn’t have. 

Bucky shakes his head. His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. “Just found something to do with my time.”

“What else do you do with it, to afford living in the city?” Steve guesses it's something good enough, but for all he knows Bucky is squatting. 

“There's a lot of work if you're not picky. Some people want to pay under the table, like this guy I clean apartments for,” Bucky says. “I’ve done some coding, been a process server. I once pretended to be someone's Russian supplier to seal a deal with their client.”

“It's like this whole other,  _ other _ world,” Steve says. “I'm just getting used to this new one, and you tell me there’s this stuff I didn’t even think about?” 

“Don't act like there wasn't always a gangland,” Bucky says. “You grew up in the forties.” 

“Twenties and thirties,” Steve corrects, because everyone always gets that wrong. “I was a man by the forties.”

“Oh, a man,” Bucky says, waving his hand like it's a big deal, but he’s openly mocking Steve. 

“Shut up,” Steve says, thinks about leaning in to kiss Bucky quiet and then just does. Bucky’s still smiling when their lips meet. 

“Ha,” Bucky says, when Steve pulls back. “Told you I knew a place to pretend to be normal people.”

Steve turns more fully towards him, hitching one leg up on the cushions. “I admit it, this is good.” 

“I just like being with you in this moment,” Bucky says, somewhat shy. 

“Yeah, me too,” Steve says. He could imagine this space on the balcony at the Tower. It’d have the kind of expensive fabrics Tony likes, the ones that Steve won't admit liking too. He’d be curled up by a fire with Bucky and talking about the future instead of the right now.

Not that he doesn't enjoy this moment, especially when Bucky curls his fingers into the fabric of Steve’s jeans and pulls him closer to connect in a kiss. They make out lazily, Bucky's tongue in Steve's mouth and hand on his leg climbing higher. Steve keeps his hands to himself until he feels Bucky shift, settling back against the cushions. He climbs on top of Bucky to bury his hands in Bucky’s hair and ends up kicking over a beer bottle. 

“Shit,” Steve says, half-laughing, half on top of Bucky still.

“Don't get wet,” Bucky says, putting his hand on Steve’s shirt and pulling him back in, mouth seeking Steve’s, landing somewhere covered by the beard Steve hopes Bucky still likes. The puddle’s expanding so Steve has to pull back with a groan and get up. 

“Should we clean it up?” 

“Leave it,” Bucky says. He sits up and makes a face at Steve, hair messed up from kissing. The blond color is just at the ends of his hair now, like it's an afterthought. 

Steve wonders what Bucky looks like blond, or if his hair’s been longer than it is now. He scrubs a hand over his own hair, growing out of the shorter cut he had been favouring into something Natasha’s been calling disturbingly trendy. 

“You ever have the high and tight?” Steve asks, drawing his hand up to tuck a particularly blond strand behind Bucky's ear. 

“Not as much,” Bucky says, running his own hand over Steve’s hair, then his beard. Maybe Steve will keep the beard for a while yet. “Hair grew too fast, they were just happy if it looked even.” 

“You ever going to wanna talk about it, the army,” Steve asks, taking his hands back to reach for the bottle that they didn't knock over. He’s suddenly thirsty.

“It's been three years and I'm still not ready to start digging that up.” Bucky shakes his head a little, but doesn’t try and put distance between them this time. Steve takes it as progress. 

“It's been three years for me too,” Steve says, rubbing his thumb over the beer’s label. It claims to be America’s beer. “Since I lost everything I knew. But I found someone who listened to what I said, not what they think I said, and that helps. Not that I'd think I'd be a fan of talking about it.” 

“Hard to remember you slept all that time. That the end of the war was so recent for you.”

“Didn't even know it ended,” Steve says. “Thought for a second the Nazis won.” 

Bucky wrinkles his nose. “They didn't tell you that, soon as you woke up?” 

“I figured it out. They never really asked me what I needed. I had to find that by myself. But it helped, when I found it.” Steve doesn’t mention that after SHIELD collapsed that he’d questioned it all over again, that he’s been trying to find himself on subway lines and old buildings in Brooklyn that don’t look the same anymore. It’s brought him Bucky, which he can’t complain about. 

Bucky breathes out, long and slow. 

“I tried a group, first,” Steve continues, so Bucky doesn’t think he’s pushing. “Didn’t help, not with who I was. But talking did, once I got there. The VA knows some people.” 

He takes a chance and looks over at Bucky, who’s giving him a dark look like Steve better be joking. 

“Well, you know what I mean. Never mind. Maybe you should talk to my friend Sam,” Steve says. “He’s very intuitive, you wouldn’t even have to tell him much. He’s the one at the VA who helped me. Didn’t assume anything about me just because I was Captain America.” 

“A therapist?” Bucky pushes himself up on one elbow. 

“A friend.” 

“Well, we might meet,” Bucky says, then knocks his knee against Steve’s hand, still holding the bottle. “You done with your beer?” 

“Yeah, why?” Steve wonders if this is Bucky changing the subject. 

“I wanna make out again without any accidents,” Bucky says, biting his lip a little in a way that’s a little flirty, a little devious. Steve likes it. 

“Alright,” Steve says easily enough, and sets the empty bottle down to let Bucky push him around this time. 

* * *

On Tuesday, the next group for the program starts in class for the first time. It’s different now that Steve knows what he’s doing, going over the purpose of the program and getting a sense of their personalities. He’s trying not to compare this group to the last because that’s not fair to either of them, but there are a few obvious differences.

“Somehow I ended up with more men in this class than women,” Steve says when Sam comes by after Steve’s done for the day. “I have two Pats and three Terrys, and they all turned out to be men. Even the Leslie. What are the odds?” 

“Pretty good when your data set is seventy years out of date,” Sam says. 

“Hey, that wasn't by choice,” Steve says mildly, and resumes shoving the first aid certification papers into a folder for Maria. 

“Read a book, man,” Sam says, sitting on the edge of a table at the front of the room. “Take a class. You were looking for a hobby, weren't you?” 

“No time, got two jobs, too many smartass friends,” Steve says, waving it off. He goes to the computer in the corner to take out his flash drive. “I just had hope from the first group that things had changed more.” 

“You’re dealing with firefighters, cops, EMTs,” Sam says. “Maybe a few soldiers. Areas that typically employ more men. It was bound to happen.” 

“I'm just concerned about how much they're going to get out of this,” Steve says and tells Sam about how they don't have discussions, they just talk over and louder until he has to break in. 

“Give them a scenario where they can't talk,” Sam suggests, coming over to the desk to flip through some of Steve’s outlines for the upcoming days. He points at one with the targeting system, loosely based off Project Insight. “None of them. Non-verbal communication only. See how they adapt.”

“It has potential,” Steve says, marking a few of the exercises that would work like that. “I might find Maria, actually, see if she has a giant white noise machine and do that tomorrow.” 

“I hope it goes well.” Sam shrugs, and starts helping Steve pack up his notes for the week, stopping when he finds a spiral book Steve would swear he left in his bag. “Oh, is this your burn book?” 

“My sketchbook,” Steve says, reaching for it, and then takes a step back after he processes. “My what?” 

“We’re watching  _ Mean Girls _ later,” Sam tells him. He goes to open the book. “Can I?” 

“I have no secrets,” Steve lies, mind racing through what he’s been doodling over the past few days for anything that would require awkward explanation. He messes with his bag and the folders, trying not to let on how uncomfortable Sam’s perusal is. It’s been a long time since someone’s seen his art, not counting the few things preserved in the Smithsonian. He doesn’t count the line drawings Bucky saw. 

“Oh,” Sam says, stopping his flipping in surprise. He turns the book over to show Steve a detail of Bucky’s face, one where Bucky’s hidden under his hood, biting his lip before sharing something special. “Steve, is your subway ghost?” 

Steve folds his arms over his chest, curling his shoulders in to try and look less present. “Well, he’s not exactly a ghost.” 

“Steve.” Sam lowers the book to give him a look of absolute judgement. “What did you do.” 

“He found me again,” Steve says. “I think we’re seeing each other now.” 

“Holy shit,” Sam says. 

“Sam, it’s—” 

“No, give me a second,” Sam says, holding up a hand. He tosses the sketchbook down onto the table so Bucky can stare up at them. Steve picks it up and sets it back to rights to tuck it into his bag. 

A janitor wheels his cart into the room from the hallway, back to them as he comes in. Steve checks his watch, it’s after five. “Sorry, I didn’t think it was so late.” 

Sam shakes his head. “No, you know what? I think I need to mull this over a beer.” 

“I can arrange that,” Steve says, and shoves all of his paperwork into his bag. “Let me just run this upstairs to my office a second.” 

“Couldn’t have cleaned up any faster, could you.” Sam goes to stand by the door. 

“I was working on it,” Steve grumbles, grabbing his bag to follow with a wave of thanks to the janitor, only then catching sight of Bucky’s face. “What are you doing here?”

“Figures you'd take the time to acknowledge the janitor,” Bucky says, pushing up the brim on the hat he’s wearing. “Told you it was easy.” 

“Someone tell me what’s going on,” Sam says. He has his gun trained on Bucky, hands steady. “You, don’t move.” 

Bucky looks completely unbothered, smirking around the toothpick in the corner of his mouth. He’s wearing the slate grey coveralls of the janitorial staff and Steve almost didn’t look at him twice. 

Steve huffs out a breath. “Sam, it’s fine.” 

“Not good enough,” Sam says, and keeps his weapon high. 

“Sam, I’d like you to meet Bucky,” Steve says, looks at Bucky again and then just goes for it. “My boyfriend.” 

“Am I?” Bucky asks. He’s still focused on Steve, like Sam isn’t even in the room. 

“Yeah,” Steve says. “We’re dating now, aren’t we?” 

“This feels like a moment,” Sam says. “Are you having a moment, should I come back?” 

“It’s fine,” Steve says. This time Sam believes him, holstering the weapon to circle Bucky warily. 

Bucky turns to blast Sam with a dazzling smile, the kind that would make Steve believe Bucky could be any Brooklyn hipster if it wasn’t completely fake. “Nice to meet one of Steve’s friends. He’s said so much about you.” 

“You’re dating the subway ghost,” Sam says. He leaves a respectable amount of space between himself and the cleaning cart, so he might not believe Bucky either. 

“Not a ghost,” Bucky says. “Also, I don’t live in the subway.” 

“Fine, then you disappeared,” Sam says, leaning back against the whiteboard at the front of the room. “I read that article in the  _ Times. _ So what’s that about?” 

“He’s been living off the grid for some very good reasons,” Steve jumps in to say, before Bucky can wind up to lash out. “But he’s been helping me get in touch again.” 

Sam gives Bucky a calculating look. “You’re the reason Steve took this job? Why he’s not just eating his way through Brooklyn?” 

“I have no idea,” Bucky says, giving Steve the side eye when he thinks about protesting the comment about his foodie adventures. “We’re working through some shit together, but I’m not telling him what he should do.” 

“You a vet, too?” Sam asks. “I can see it.” 

“I don’t remember much about it,” Bucky says, but he doesn’t deny it. It could be a sign of progress. 

Sam looks at Steve, and then back to Bucky. “It helps to talk, for what it’s worth. It’s easier not to be alone.” 

“I’m good,” Bucky says. He shifts his weight to one side, increasing the distance between him and Sam. “Talking, not talking, it’s about the same.” 

“Huh,” Sam says. Despite pulling a gun earlier, he seems comfortable now. “So tell me, boyfriend Bucky, why’d you disappear?” 

“I didn’t.” Bucky watches Sam, one hand resting on the cleaning cart. It could be casual, except it isn’t. “I left, I told them so, but the police didn’t believe me. Tada, missing person.” 

“That’s messed up, you know that,” Sam says. He looks at Bucky steadily, but Steve can tell he’s also being judged. 

“It was easier,” Bucky says. “Working through at my own pace.” 

“Sure,” Sam says. “We’re going for drinks, you want to join us?” 

“I have to go,” Bucky says. He nods at them both, and prepares to push the cart out of the room. Apparently pretending to be a janitor doesn’t actually mean any cleaning gets done. 

“Sure, text me later?” Steve asks, and Bucky nods before slipping out the door. Steve would bet if he followed Bucky would already be gone, and so would the cart. 

“Steven Rogers,” Sam says, pushing away from the whiteboard. “What have you done.” 

“He made me promise not to push. He doesn’t want people to look for him, and I have to respect that,” Steve says. “He’s really private but we’re making it work. I like him, Sam, I want to make it work.” 

“I guess for a time-jumping superman, you can’t just date some guy you met grabbing coffee,” Sam says. 

“Not exactly,” Steve says, and slumps down into the chair behind the desk. “But he actually talked to you, that was so great.” 

“That’s surprising?” Sam asks. “You said private, not a recluse. What kind of relationship is this, you don’t even talk—oh, oh no. I got an image.”

“Shut up,” Steve says, rubbing his hand over his face. “Yes, that will happen, I have a boyfriend.”

“Whatever, you do you man,” Sam says, gesturing to the door. “Can we get out of this room now?” 

“Yeah.” Steve gets up, grabbing his bag and following Sam out to the hallway and the elevator. As he suspected, there’s no sign of Bucky or the cart. He wonders if that’s been left in a room somewhere that Ben will have to go find it somewhere. “And for the record, I know normal people don’t talk about everything in their lives either. We’re just focusing on what the future holds for now, not the past. Is that wrong?”

“Don’t think normal is perfect. It’s not something to live up to,” Sam says, leading the way to the first bank of elevators to Steve’s office. “And I have some serious concerns about your boy there.” 

“Concerns,” Steve says, pushing the button for his floor. He won’t be surprised if they echo his own thoughts, that even though he’s giving Bucky his space part of him can’t help pushing. 

“What he’s doing is not recovery, in any sense,” Sam says. “The not talking about it or trying to work through it? Letting the police think he’s missing because it’s easy? Any of this feel wrong to you?” 

“He’s just getting by,” Steve says, leading the way to his office to drop off his things. 

“That’s it, Steve,” Sam says. “He’s just surviving, that’s not getting better.” 

“I know.” Steve locks his office again, and pulls on his coat as he follows Sam back out. 

Sam points his thumb at the private elevators to the residential floors. “You wanna just grab something upstairs instead?” 

“Yes I do,” Steve says gratefully. 

They make the short journey upstairs in the Tower. Sam doesn’t look too irritated by returning home so soon after coming to visit Steve at work, especially when he kicks his shoes off by the door. Natasha’s gone on a work thing with Clint, but Tony is wandering through the lounge when they come in, looking startled to see them. 

“I thought you two were going out,” Tony says, jabbing at his tablet surface without looking. “Was karaoke too busy?” 

“You told him we were going for karaoke?” Steve asks Sam in surprise. “You wanted to do karaoke?”

“No,” Sam says. “That was his suggestion.” 

_ “His _ suggestion is amazing,” Tony says. “The empty orchestra, so poetic. Not that you uncultured city boys would know.”

“Weren’t you also born in New York?” Steve asks, circling around to the kitchen. His phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls out it out with a smile before he sees the message is from Clint, not Bucky. 

“Raised in sunshine.” Tony waves it off. “So, what, you’re sticking around now? Boys’ night in?” 

“Yeah,” Sam says, dropping onto the far side of a couch to dig for the remote. “You gonna join us?”

“I’m not a beer and football kind of guy,” Tony defers, but he’s lingering in the room like he’s interested. 

“It’s April, the season’s over,” Sam says. He pulls up the show guide on the big screen. “And I think you know that since you own a team, don’t you?” 

“We could, I have no idea,” Tony says with a shrug. He sets his tablet down on the coffee table, committing more fully to the room. “Wait, can we watch a movie?” 

“I’m supposed to watch one about mean girls, right, Sam?” Steve says, heading to the kitchen’s drink fridge. “Beers okay for everyone?”

“I don’t drink anymore,” Tony says. “And yeah, I could watch a movie. That movie, even. I have to let my subconscious figure out a problem anyway.”

“Don’t talk about Jarvis that way, it’s creepy,” Steve says, coming into the lounge with drinks in hand. He sets a mug in front of Tony and hands a beer to Sam. 

“My actual subconscious,” Tony says, rolling his eyes. “Wait, what’s this? I don’t drink.” 

Steve waves to it, dropping into the corner of the couch beside the one Tony’s claimed. “High quality H2O.” 

“Who introduced you to Adam Sandler, Sam, we’re going to have words about exposing Steve to bad influences,” Tony says. He peers down into the top of the cup. “Hot cocoa with marshmallows?”

Steve shrugs. “It was Clint, by the way. He has the most varied interest in pop culture.” 

“Clint, of course,” Tony says, and settles back into the couch with the mug still in hand. 

Steve feels satisfied and sits back to hopefully be able to understand another reference. 

* * *

Steve doesn't find a white noise machine, but Maria points him to Stark’s testing room instead. He gets to stand outside with her while the group tries to communicate against what must feel like a wall of sound.

“I bet someone cries,” Maria says. 

“I'll put five it’s Adams,” Steve says, naming the big firefighter who’s been one of the worst offenders. 

“Five, that's pocket change,” Maria says. They shake on it. 

It looks like things are in Steve's favour for a while, when Adams gets so frustrated at not being able to tell Bishop what to do, but the tears never come. They call it even since nobody ends up crying. 

“Next time you should come after them with a paintball gun,” Maria says, after they're done for the day. 

“Paintball’s on Friday,” Steve says, thinking of the week ahead. “But we’ll see if they take anything out of today.”

“You'll probably have trouble tomorrow, once they’re back in the usual space. They'll make up for lost time,” Maria says. 

“It could backfire, or I could have given them something to talk about,” Steve says, locking his office door. 

“I’d hope they go with thinking.” Maria falls into step with him as they head for the residential elevator. She’s coming up for family dinner now that Bruce’s emerged from his retreat. “Or else your algorithm for selecting people for the program is off.” 

“This group seems to thrive on conflict,” Steve says. 

“Not like we know anyone else like that,” Maria says easily, but she’s giving him an obvious side eye as they take the elevator up. 

Family dinner turns out to be three kinds of lasagna, two salads, and a little robot with a box of wine. Steve gives Tony a look instead of saying something about it, but Maria offers the robot a fist that it clumsily meets with the bend of its arm. 

Tony’s talking to Bruce about the middle lasagna. It’s possibly one Bruce made, in a purple stoneware dish. The top layer is made out of eggplant. He used to live beside Italians, but it’s like nothing Steve’s seen before. 

They all find space around the table, Clint and Sam jostling a bit to sit at the other head of the table from Tony. Steve ends up between Natasha and Pepper, loosening the neckline of his polo as he sits down. 

“This is quite the look,” Pepper says, touching her own neck. 

“I feel like a tennis instructor,” Steve says sheepishly, looking down at his outfit. Natasha had suggested it, and she’s right: with the too-tight sleeves of his lime green polo, no one thinks he’s a superhero. “Just need a whistle.” 

“With the beard, no one would ever guess,” Pepper says. “It’s quite ingenious, really.” 

“I had been just looking for a change,” Steve says. He’d trimmed the beard yesterday, not shaved it off, so he’s accepted that it’s his thing now. 

“You’ve certainly gotten that,” Pepper says, and turns to answer one of Tony’s questions on her other side. 

Steve takes the time to fill his plate, trying a bit of everything. He really does love the food of the future. 

“Oh, no, yesterday was fun,” Natasha tells Sam across the table, taking a sip of wine. “But I can’t talk about it.” 

“No, it wasn’t,” Clint says. He’s won the spot at the head of the table with a sampling of each lasagna on his plate. “Yesterday was boring.” 

“And you still can’t talk about it,” Sam says, rolling his eyes. 

“Now you’re catching on,” Clint says. “Make a secret agent out of you yet.” 

“Not again,” Sam mutters to the table, and Steve has to look away before he starts laughing. 

At the far end of the table Bruce and Tony are having a conversation about biometric coding and alloys and programming. It involves a lot of gesturing and technical terms that no one else even tries to follow. 

“How are you enjoying the work with Maria?” Pepper asks him, delicately picking at her salad. 

“Even if she wasn’t blatantly eavesdropping, I’d say it’s going well,” Steve says, and just smiles when Maria flips him off without looking. She’s supposedly deep in conversation with Tony’s friend Rhodes but Steve knows how that goes. 

“Wait, so does that mean you’re no longer an Avenger,” Natasha says. “Did I miss your two weeks notice?” 

“I didn’t quit,” Steve says, wondering if it’s too soon to go for seconds and whether it’d be too obvious a deflection if he asked. “It’s a side gig.” 

“Hmm, yes,” Tony cuts in, gesturing with an empty fork now, so apparently he is managing to eat something. “He’s training his ducklings to be prepared for crises. Not a bad idea, actually, that we can work with people who understand how to respond appropriately when faced with actual aliens. Good job, Maria, even if that means Steve is the mother duck.” 

“Excuse me, Steve’s a what?” Clint says, scowling at Tony. He nods reassuringly at Steve, but Steve feels lost. 

“Not that, a mother duck,” Natasha repeats and signs it to him too. 

Clint keeps the squinty look up for another second before he shrugs and goes back to eating. 

“Gotta look out for you, Steve,” Natasha says, patting his hand. 

“Yes, I'm a babe in the woods,” Steve gripes goodnaturedly and turns his attention back to his own plate. There's plenty of conversation swirling around the table so it’s easy to step in and out, depending on how he feels. Right now he’s enjoying the sound of it all, in not being alone. 

His phone vibrates once with a text. Steve slips one hand under the table to flip it over. It’s from Bucky, an address and a time about forty minutes away. Smiling, Steve slides his phone back into his pocket and looks back up around the table. 

Natasha’s seen everything, giving him a judgemental look. “Phone at the table, Steven? During dinner?”

“Just making sure it wasn't an emergency,” he says. He doesn’t trust the look on her face and leaves his hand down by his side. 

“We're all here,” she says, tipping her head towards the other side of the table. She’s such a shit. “Who could it be?” 

“Maybe it’s someone special,” Clint says, winking at Sam. 

“Maybe it is,” Sam says with a nod to Steve. If he'd winked, he couldn't be more obvious. 

“Sam, go on,” Natasha prods, shifting like she's trying to kick at him under the table. Luckily for Sam, her legs can’t reach. 

Sam shakes his head and refuses to say more when they all start pressing him on it, taking some of the heat off Steve. He says it's not his news to share. 

Natasha slides her hand over Steve’s shoulder reassuringly as she gets up to replace the robot’s box of wine. “Care to share, Steven?” 

“Oh, news,” Clint says with a glint in his eye. He taps at his chin. “Secret girlfriend?”

“I do not have a secret girlfriend,” Steve says. 

“But you do go out a lot, on what could be considered date-like things,” Natasha says. 

“How would you even know,” Sam says, “you’re gone for work all the time.” 

Natasha just smiles at him. 

“I can’t think of the last time I went with on a good food tour,” Clint says, and points his fork at Steve. “That is a hint, by the way, I want to try that fry place.” 

“I never go,” Tony interjects from the far end of the table. 

“Would you want to?” Steve asks. He hasn’t asked Tony because it seems unlikely he’d ever say yes, but he hopes now he hasn’t offended. 

Tony shakes his head. “No, awful, all those forgotten cleaning regulations.” 

“You’re awful,” Pepper says before turning to Steve. “If it isn’t a chain…” 

“They have set standards!” Tony says loudly, and looks to Rhodes. “Back me up here?”

“You just love Burger King cheeseburgers,” Rhodes says. 

“Well I do—”

“Wait, have we lost the plot here? Steve has a secret girlfriend, remember?” Clint says, crushing Steve’s hope that they’d moved off the subject. 

He presses his hands over his eyes. At this rate he’s not going to make Bucky’s deadline. “I really don't have a girlfriend.”

“Oh,” Natasha says, blinking twice as she makes some connections. “Really?”

“Well.” Steve shrugs. It’s not like he’s ever hid the fact he’s also into men. They'd just assumed he couldn't be. 

“Wait, what?” Clint says, dropping his cutlery. “Are you serious? Holding that close to the vest, are we, Rogers?” 

Bruce looks up, confusion all over his face. “Holding what? Can someone decode this for the non-spies here?”

“Cap has a secret boyfriend,” Maria says. “Right?” 

“I do,” Steve says. 

There’s a moment of silence as everyone absorbs that thought, whether it’s the idea that Steve has one or that he’s kept it hidden for this long. 

Tony’s the first to recover. “So when do we get to meet this mystery man of your dreams?”

“I’m happy for you, Steve,” Pepper says and squeezes his hand firmly. 

“Thanks,” Steve says. He pushes back from the table when she lets him go. Steve might ask Bucky whether he’d like to meet them, but in a less busy environment like this. He can’t imagine Bucky here. 

“Be nice, he’s taking it slow,” Natasha says. She’s still standing by the robot with her half-full glass and her smile says she’s up to no good. “He’s a ninety-year-old virgin, it’ll take time before he gives away his flower.” 

“On that note, I’m out,” Steve says, and flips them all off to the sounds of cackling laughter.

The address Bucky sent him leads to a Radisson, the kind of majestic style and stone facade that Steve remembers from the buildings he grew up with, alongside the Art Deco projects of his youth. It's been updated, obviously, mirrors and glass and granite a contrast to the history outside. 

The front desk sits at the far end of the lobby, away from the doors of the front entrance. It's a little awkward, all that empty space no one uses like a runway down the centre. 

For secret meeting purposes, it's perfect. Although a bank of elevators sits on the other side of the front desk, a stairway to the meeting rooms on the lower level feeds off the lobby. 

Steve slips through that door and no one looks at him twice. Two flights down takes him to a series of meeting rooms off a long hallway. Nothing here is to code since there's no elevator access, and it looks abandoned. 

The doors to the rooms—Madison, Washington, Adams—are all closed, an expanse of beige. There's no sign of Bucky here. 

Steve shoves his hands in his pockets and starts forward, shoes squeaking on the tile. Each door says the room is vacant. 

The end of the hallway comes at a door marked employees only. 

Dead end, Steve thinks, and pulls out his phone to text Bucky. As he does, he feels someone behind him. He hopes it’s not hotel staff. 

“Hi,” Bucky says, hands shoved into his pockets. There’s no bulky sweatshirt today, Bucky wearing a blue cardigan over a white tee, and the stupid hat. The colour brings out his eyes and the hat makes Steve want to do things to him. 

“I like your hat,” Steve says, letting a few of those things come out in his voice. 

Bucky just smiles and takes him through the employee door to an room he says is never locked. It’s small, just enough room for a desk and a couple of boxes. 

“I was just at dinner,” Steve says, closing the door behind them. “They were asking about you.”

Bucky turns and looks at him sharply, making Steve hold up his hand to put off the objections. 

“Not by name,” Steve says. “Just the idea of you.” 

“The idea of me,” Bucky repeats, sitting just on the edge of the desk. “What's that like?” 

“The boyfriend part’s pretty good, working on the secret.” 

“I met your friend already.” Bucky frowns, sounding annoyed. 

“I have more than one friend,” Steve says laughingly, then realizes Bucky is serious. “Buck, you met Sam, that’s one friend. I have more people in my life than that.” 

“You’re friends with spies and billionaires. Those kinds of things make me uncomfortable.”

“You could meet Bruce, he’s a scientist,” Steve says. He doesn’t mention the other guy. 

“He’s the…” Bucky trails off, waving his hand to fill in the rest. 

“Yeah, the big angry one,” Steve says. 

Bucky pokes a foot at Steve’s shin with a smile on his face. “I thought that was you?” 

“He’s the bigger one,” Steve says, sitting down besides Bucky on the desk. There’s a loose piece of the desk under the palm of one hand that he can’t help but pick at with his thumb. “But I’m not feeling as angry lately.”

“I don’t want to promise anything,” Bucky says. It’s a refusal, softened by the touch of his hand to Steve’s on the edge of the desk. 

“I’m just asking,” Steve says, but he knows that Bucky won’t change his mind. He has his reasons for disappearing, whatever they are, and it’s obvious that the thought of someone at Natasha’s level taking an interest in his life disturbs him. 

“It’s important to you, I see that,” Bucky says, which doesn’t answer the question. 

“Will you ever feel comfortable enough to do it?” Steve asks, staring at the signout sheet posted on the back of the office door. He respects Bucky’s decision, but he has to hope for more than these secret places. “You have your reasons, but I want you as part of my life, and that includes the times I’m with the team.” 

Bucky grimaces and shifts his weight to his far side, like he wants to disappear. There’s no room in the office to let him. 

He’s promised not to ask for Bucky’s secrets, but he doesn’t want Bucky to be a secret. He gets up from the desk and shifts to put the door at his back, ignoring the way Bucky stiffens with the exit blocked. “Where do you think this will go?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky gets out, looking pained by the experience. “I don’t want to lose this. I’m comfortable with you in a way that I’m not with other people.”

“So am I,” Steve says, and scrubs his hands over his face. He’s greedy enough to ask for more, but doesn’t want Bucky to think he’s a problem. 

“I should—I want to tell you something,” Bucky says, and slides his hand up inside the left shoulder of his cardigan. 

“Okay,” Steve says, sliding his hands into his pockets to give Bucky the illusion space he seems to need at this second. 

“Be easier to show you, I think,” Bucky says, and slips the cardigan off his arm. 

His metal arm. It’s a marvel, made out of shiny silver plates that fit together in a way unlike Tony’s suits, more like traditional armor. 

Steve looks from it to Bucky’s face. He looks uneasy, but not upset. 

Bucky waggles his fingers on the metal hand. “Parting gift from the army.” 

“Oh,” Steve says. He can’t remember if he’s seen it before, but likes to think he would have at least noticed it being made of metal. 

“They found me with it, over there,” Bucky says. “There’s no memory of how or why, just that it happened when I was held there. They said it’s a part of me, as much as the flesh one.”

“I like this part of you too,” Steve says, looking to Bucky for permission before he takes his hand. The metal’s cool to the touch, and lighter than it looks. Steve uses his grip to pull Bucky in to kiss him.

Bucky stumbles for a second, catching himself with his metal hand gripped into Steve’s stupid polo shirt and his mouth on Steve’s. He’s tense, though, doesn’t relax into it and Steve lets him step back after a few seconds.

“They took things from me that I can’t get back,” Bucky says, unwrapping his fingers from Steve’s shirt. He sits down absently, looking at the way the plating around his knuckles seems to respond to just a thought of shifting. 

“You’re letting them take things,” Steve says. He wants to make fists of his hands and punch something, but shoves them into his pockets instead. “When you disappear, you’re letting them take that part of your life from you.”

Bucky makes a fist with his metal arm and then releases it. “You don’t understand.” 

“I guess I don’t,” Steve says. “You can do whatever you want with your life, I just think there’s more to it than this.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything. 

The room presses in at the same time Steve feels like he’s miles away from where Bucky is. Bucky won’t even look at him, turning away to grab his cardigan. 

Steve falls silent too, watching the way Bucky puts himself together, hiding his arm. He cares about Bucky but he doesn’t think Bucky wants him to, not in the healthy way that involves trust and growth. 

“What,” Bucky says, reaching up to adjust his hat. 

“I think I’m falling in love with you,” Steve says, and freezes, horrified that he’d said it out loud. 

There’s a moment of silence where Steve knows he’s blushing and Bucky looks anywhere but at him. 

“It’s okay,” Bucky says, after the silence turns awkward. “Yeah, it’s fine.” 

It’s not the response Steve hoped for, but he doesn’t want to make this any worse so he lets it go. He lets Bucky kiss him goodbye still in the office. It’s a quick thing that barely lands on the corner of his mouth. 

Bucky disappears further into the basement tunnels. Steve watches him go, then heads back up to the land of the living on the same stairs he came in on. 

It’s dark when he makes it to the street. 


	5. Chapter 5

Steve doesn’t hear from Bucky by the time he heads down the Tower for work the next morning, and throws himself into an exercise so he doesn’t agonize over it. He's separated the worst offenders into one group to act as support for the others, hoping it'll quell their urge to take over. They fail the first scenario, too busy squabbling to watch the clock. A few of them catch on, even if they fail the next. 

When he runs upstairs to grab something from his office over the lunch break, he lets himself look at his phone. There’s a text from Bucky, simple but worrisome:  _ need time, talk to you soon. _ Steve frowns at his phone but doesn’t respond. He can give Bucky that. 

Steve passes by Maria’s office on the way back down. She happens to catch his eye and gestures him in as she’s ending her call, so he stops in to tell her the experiment worked. 

She’s pleased but unsurprised, taking the news in with a nod. 

“I’ve actually been considering a cross-country program as well as cross-departmental,” Maria says, gesturing for Steve to take the chair across from her desk. “Could you imagine, the New York boroughs working with Jersey or Connecticut?” 

“I try and avoid thinking about New Jersey as much as possible,” Steve says dryly, even if he likes the way Maria’s mind works. “But okay, I like the idea. Not that I’m hoping for it, but if we were reacting from the eastern seaboard to Arizona, it’d be helpful to all be on the same page.” 

“Hell, I’d settle for the same book,” Maria says. She pulls a sheet out of paper out of a folder and holds it out to him. It’s a list of names. “If we’re going to expand the program, I thought you’d like the first chance to review names of possible staff to take on.” 

She didn’t say replacements. Steve sits back, looking at the list. One sticks out right away. “Carter?” 

“Carter,” Maria agrees. “She’s active CIA right now, but she might have some ideas. I think I could tempt her to consider something part-time.” 

“If anyone,” Steve says, “you probably can.” 

With the list of names tucked into his pocket, Steve takes the elevator back down for the afternoon. He doesn’t think about the implications of taking on more with Maria’s program, what it could mean for his Avengers career. Instead, he thinks about the future, about how important it is for people to be prepared against whatever’s going to come at them. 

Maybe the world would be in a better place if those that vow to protect and serve were able to do so against alien attacks and runaway science experiments too. Steve huffs out a laugh. He isn’t naive. He knows that the world isn’t equal, and it never will be without conflict as long as human beings are involved. 

At least the humans in his class are figuring a few things out. They’re working together without Steve having to direct them, attempting to rescue someone’s lunchbox in preparation for the field trip scheduled for next week. 

* * *

On Friday he’s done early because they’d taken out a scenario. This group doesn’t invite him out for drinks, but Steve doesn’t mind.

The lack of plans means he’s around when Thor comes up from the flight level with Tony and Bruce. 

“My friend!” Thor announces, holding his arms wide in greeting. He may be waiting for a hug, but Steve’s not ready for that yet and sticks his hand out for a shake instead. 

“Not going to work,” Tony says with a twitch of his mouth. Sure enough, Steve gets dragged into Thor’s chest with the one arm he offers. Thor is strong, clapping his hand on Steve’s back. He’s not wearing sleeves, despite the fact it’s a cool mid-April outside. 

Thor laughs when he releases Steve, patting him on the biceps in a way that feels too familiar for how little they know each other. 

“Yeah, he got me downstairs,” Tony says. 

“I was sent off to amuse myself,” Thor tells them. “Jane is busy researching my presents.” 

“You mean your presence,” Bruce corrects, sliding his glasses into the neck of his shirt. He sounds smug, but he and Tony have been closed off in the lab all day and it takes them a while to get back to tolerable. 

“No,” Thor says. His smile doesn’t falter, but he looks like he’s aware of the undertones. “I brought her gifts from Asgard and she’s researching how they can be possible.” 

“I’d like some gifts next time,” Bruce mumbles to Tony. 

“I’d like to see what happens with that,” Tony says back, and flashes Thor a grin. “So, you ready to party Midgard style?” 

“I am prepared,” Thor says, and turns with a swirl of his cape. 

“Um, Tony,” Steve says, thinking of the looks they'll get. 

“Yeah, I’m on it Cap,” Tony says, and follows Thor to the lounge. 

The plan needs recalculating when Clint flat out refuses to go to the place Tony swung for the night, claiming it’s too pretentious. Steve backs him up because he trusts Clint’s taste in places. He's never been disappointed when Clint suggests they try a place. He hasn't heard of the place Clint says they should go to, but trusts that too. 

When they get out of the car in front of a divey place in Brooklyn, he starts to question his faith. It's in a neighbourhood that was questionable already seventy years ago. One of the windows out front has plywood covering it up. Clint touches it for luck on the way in. 

Inside it’s dark and the walls press in close, but there’s room for them at a big table at the back where people will leave them alone. 

Natasha and Maria meet them there, the kind of colour in their cheeks that looks like they’ve already started on the evening. 

“I’m sorry, are we interrupting ladies’ night?” Clint asks, and coughs when Natasha elbows him hard in the ribs. It's all friendly, the exaggerated motions and bickering part of their friendship. 

Steve’s sitting at the end of the table they’ve commandeered, noticing they’re loud but that the few other people in the bar doesn’t seem to notice or care. He asks Tony if it’s him, if he's paid for this kind of environment tonight, but Tony just pretends not to hear him. 

“Steve,” Maria says, drawing his attention away from the others. She’s a bit more earnest than usual, her colour high, but otherwise it's unnoticeable that she's been drinking. “You and me, we’re going to make tiny teams in every town, response teams. Volunteer only. It’s going to be great. You’ll be their king.”

“Okay,” Steve says. He wonders how much of this masterplan is lifted from sober Maria’s handwritten notes instead of the carefully worded version he'd gotten earlier. 

“King Steve,” Maria says, and then gets up when Natasha says she’s going to get them another round. 

Thor is enthusiastic about everything but the Jagermeister. Clint insists on a round but Thor won't try his, claiming it’s distasteful with a dark look on his face. He refuses to say why when they ask. 

Tony looks restless, rolling his glass of sparkling water between his hands as he watches Bruce sip a fluorescent green thing from a martini glass. There is a freedom here, Steve can feel it, with none of the posturing they normally have around the public. He wouldn't go so far as to thank Tony, but he's thankful. 

At the other side of the table, Thor is in the middle of a story about when he got his hand cut off by his brother. Clint and Maria are enthralled, whether by Thor’s reenactment with his hand tucked into his sleeve, or the idea that Thor looks human but obviously isn't. Natasha’s eyeing Thor’s hand in a way that makes Steve nervous. They are in public, after all. 

He thinks about saying something to divert Natasha when his phone goes off under the table. Even though he’s been giving Bucky time, Steve had texted him the name of the bar in case of a miracle. Bucky hadn’t responded, so this is probably the no he’s been expecting. It’s that thought that makes him head outside to take the call. 

The air outside the bar is brisk. Steve’s just in his shirt sleeves, having taken off his jacket earlier, and he puts the brick wall at his back when he answers the phone. 

There’s silence on the other end, so Steve hangs up on the dead air and waits for Bucky to call back. He’s not the only one out here, sharing the side of the building and the sidewalk with a few clusters of people. No one pays attention to him. He’s just another guy on his phone, waiting for a friend. 

“Hey,” Bucky says, stepping into the space next to Steve. He puts his left arm against the wall, curling around the shape of Steve’s body. Steve takes some of that as a good sign. 

“Hi,” Steve says and turns towards him, closing out those around them. “Was that you calling?” 

“Had to get you outside somehow,” Bucky says. He has his chin dipped down, focused more on Steve’s hand curled around his phone. 

“Okay,” Steve says, tucking his phone into his pocket and brushing the tips of his fingers over Bucky’s unshaven cheek. He looks more like he did when Steve first laid eyes on him, open instead of suspicious. 

Bucky closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. “I didn’t like the way we left it that night.”

“In the basement,” Steve clarifies. 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, rubbing at his eyes with his flesh hand before he opens them. “I wanted to say I’m sorry I’m not ready to come back.” 

“You don’t have to apologize to me,” Steve says. He catches Bucky’s hand before it drops. “I want you to want to come back, that’s all.”

“Yeah, sure,” Bucky says. He links his fingers through Steve’s, shifting to put his back against the brick and pull Steve in after him. 

Steve uses one arm to brace himself against the wall so he doesn’t rest too much weight on Bucky and block him in. It’s selfish. He knows he should let Bucky take the time to recover, but he also doesn’t want to lose him while he waits for that to happen. “Since you’re here, do you want to come inside and meet Thor?” 

“Tempting,” Bucky says. His smile is just a bare curve of his mouth, like he’s tolerating Steve’s pushing. 

“Alright,” Steve says, and puts a few inches between them that feel like miles. He smiles, but it’s a tough thing. “I gotta go back in, though. They’re my friends.” 

Bucky nods, retreating into the armour of his sweatshirt. He looks smaller this way, less himself. “Maybe I can find you later?” 

“Sounds good,” Steve says. By the time he makes it back into the bar he’s sure the weekend will be filled with plans to show Thor stuff and eat things together, but he’ll beg off for Bucky. He turns to head inside, but hesitates for a second. 

He feels Bucky take a single step behind him, and feels him stop. 

“I’ll see you,” Steve says over his shoulder. He doesn't watch Bucky disappear this time. 

Steve heads back into the bar alone to join the others. He’s quiet for the rest of the night, preoccupied with his thoughts. There’s no way to excise the part of him that needs to help people, to just put it away when he’s around Bucky. It’s the part that goes along, when Bucky needs his secret places, the same as what shows up when he’s working with his teams to make sure they come out the other side. 

He wasn’t lying when he said he just needed hope that Bucky’s trying to get more comfortable. Someday he hopes that Bucky can meet his found family. He doesn’t expect Bucky to be friends with someone like Tony Stark, but not hiding when he comes around would be nice. 

Near the end of the night, Steve ends up tucked in the corner of their table, Natasha leaning into his shoulder with her eyes half-closed. She’d had just enough to relax but still watches the others as they wait. 

If he could ask Bucky to meet anyone, it'd be Natasha. He feels like she knows about not letting the past limit her in the now. It's a point of view he thinks Bucky could use. 

The thing that’s been nagging at him is that he doesn't understand what big thing is holding Bucky back. It's something more than the adjustment to civilian life after war, a concern that drove him away. There's an undertone of fear, a terror about being found out or being with the wrong kind of people, but Steve doesn't understand why. 

“Hey, sad sack,” Clint says, interrupting the spiral of Steve’s thoughts. “You in the car with us or taking the train?”

“Car,” Steve says, and stands up with Natasha. 

The rest of the weekend goes by in much the same vein, Tony getting his way on Sunday for an upscale brunch place that has them all looking incredibly underdressed, even Tony in his usual sneakers. It’s a testament to his reputation that no one even looks at them sideways. 

If Bucky tries to find him, Steve never knows. 

He sits through Clint’s movie marathon on Sunday as the others drift in and out. It’s not so bad as it is disjointed, Clint finding the next movie from some cue in the one they just watched. Some even Steve’s seen before, and he catches himself thinking about his class for the next day during one about duelling robots. 

His group is scheduled for presentations all day before they head out for their field trip to put some of the things they've learned into practice. He’ll have to be his most attentive since this group still has a tendency to interrupt each other, driving their discussions into arguments until it’s chaos. It might be a good idea to bring back the paintball gun to keep them focused, but maybe that's just for his own benefit. 

They end the movie night when Sam notices that Clint’s disappeared, halfway through  _ Weekend at Bernie’s.  _

As is tradition, Steve asks if anyone's up for a morning run. It's the same chorus of excuses except for Thor's loud acceptance. 

It's a first, to run with an alien, and it's one Steve looks forward to. 

* * *

The next morning finds Steve at the kitchen table in his sweats, drinking a smoothie after running the promised miles with Thor. Whether it’s true of all Asgardians or not, Thor doesn’t really get running for exercise. It was a lot like Steve imagines running with a dog must be like: subject to a thorough investigation of every interesting smell. 

They’d grabbed bagels on the street and Thor wanted to get coffee at nearly every cart they passed, never mind the logistics of running with a hot beverage. Steve finally gave in on the way back from the park, paying for a frankly overpriced cup of coffee since Thor conveniently doesn’t carry money. 

Free trade on Asgard, Steve guesses. Thor appreciates the smoothie more than terrible cart coffee, looking at his empty glass thoughtfully after he’s done. 

“Another?” Steve asks, surprised when Thor laughs and mimes throwing his glass onto the floor. It must be some alien custom. 

“Another!” Thor agrees. 

Steve gets up to make it, not hearing Clint join them over the blender noise until he turns to offer Thor the second smoothie. 

Clint makes grabby hands at the glass, so Steve sighs and turns to make one more. It's a good thing they didn't run as much as he normally does on his own or he’d be dying for a sit by this point. 

“Don't tell Tony, but you can be the dad Avenger if you make more of these,” Clint says, gesturing to his glass. 

“What's that supposed to mean?” Steve says, rinsing the blender in the sink. 

“A father cares for his children,” Thor says, after some silent communication with Clint. “You care for the Avengers.”

“Okay,” Steve says slowly. He'd never thought much on it beyond it being the decent thing to do. “Please don't start calling me Captain Dad.”

“Too late,” Clint says. “It's already your new callsign.”

“It is a great honour,” Thor says. 

“Well, thanks, I guess,” Steve says, and goes to sit down with them. For a guy wasn’t given much family by birth, he's been lucky over his lifetimes to find it. They might be doing brunch later when the rest of the team wakes up, but he's not hungry right now. 

Sam’s the next to limp in, going straight to the coffee machine. He’d been sparring with Clint and obviously lost. The pot Steve had started before their run is still half full, a sign everyone else is getting a later start than seven. 

“I’ve found something,” Natasha announces, coming into the kitchen with her hair neatly braided and a folder in hand. 

“I hope it’s breakfast,” Clint says. Sam nods with a huge yawn. 

Natasha gives him a look, and opens the folder. “Evidence of Hydra activity in Central Europe. There's a science facility believed to be connected to experiments with Loki’s staff.” 

“His staff,” Thor says. “Wasn’t it contained?” 

“SHIELD had a pest problem,” Clint says. 

“Hydra,” Steve says to Thor, who nods in understanding. He’d been filled in on that one during one of the many times they’d stopped to talk about bagels. 

“We’ve outlined a raid on the facility,” Natasha says. “Go in together, like old time’s sake.”

“Old time’s sake broke Midtown,” Tony says. Somehow, he has a green smoothie despite them being in the kitchen for the last thirty minutes. 

“This is like summer camp for Nazis,” Natasha says. “Steve’s favourite.” 

“Actually,” Steve says. “I’m going to sit this one out.” 

It’s impressive, actually, there’s silence for about three seconds before they all start telling him no, he has to come. Except Sam, who’s looking at Steve thoughtfully. 

“To be honest? Fighting Nazis is going to bring up some stuff I’m not comfortable with.” Steve says. He feels like he’s outlining one of the scenarios for the program, except he already knows Natasha’s competent. All of them are. “You’re a team, whether I’m there or not.”

“But you’re Captain Dad,” Clint says. 

“I’m going to need to hear the story on that one,” Tony says, gesturing with his smoothie glass. “But, okay, yeah, Captain Dad. What, you got a hot date you need to be here for?”

“Just realizing I don’t have to be in every fight,” Steve says with a shrug. “Besides, Natasha’s been working this from the start. She knows the Hydra activity, she should be command.”

“Me,” she says, surprised enough to show it. Like she doesn’t have a folder full of reports and tactics, hasn’t been working her own missions under Fury, given objectives and surpassing the expected results. 

Clint looks at her, then claps a hand against Thor’s bicep before he gets up. 

“I look forward to following Midgard’s fiercest warriors,” Thor says, and stands up. 

“Let’s go, boss,” Clint calls her, and the three of them leave to get suited up on the flight deck. 

Sam shakes his head when Tony looks at him, and hobbles out of the kitchen. 

“So you’re going AWOL, Cap,” Tony says. 

“I’m moving forward,” Steve tells him. He’s not the only one who wants to save the world, and other people need to know they are prepared to take action too. 

“I see that,” Tony says. He throws back the rest of his smoothie, almost angry. “I don’t know if I like being part of what you’re leaving behind.”

“You’re not,” Steve says, leaning back in his chair. “If I’m not Captain America, someone else can pick up the shield. The world will always need someone to protect it, I just don’t think I’m the only one who has to do anymore.” 

“You’re not,” Tony says, simply but not harshly. “But if everyone else just didn’t?” 

“That’s not what this is,” Steve says. “I just don’t think I’m supposed to be the only one doing this. What if seeing me out there discourages people from helping?”

“I’m going to tell you something,” Tony says, setting his smoothie glass into the sink. “The government wanted my suits. It’s why I didn’t like the idea of Fury, of SHIELD. So the government called them weapons, said they had a right to them to protect the country. And anyone can use a weapon, right?”

“Right,” Steve says. 

“They didn’t get that it wasn’t just a suit, that I was Iron Man, whatever that quality was. I made the suit, but more than that, I gave it meaning. That’s more than just picking up a weapon.” 

“Well,” Steve says. “I’m not putting it down just yet. Just like the idea of having a choice.”

“The choice to be regular Steve,” Tony says, waving dismissively. “You’ll be back.” 

“Sure I will,” Steve says, and holds one hand up in goodbye as Tony finally heads to the flight deck to join the others. 

The thing is, Tony is right. No sooner does he see the quinjet leave through the wall of glass than Steve’s hit by a wave of regret. If he wasn’t committed to work he’s not sure what he would have done. He heads upstairs to change into his work clothes, pulling at the fabric that rides up on his biceps and heads to class. 

During the presentations he doesn’t have a lot of time to think on it, focusing instead on keeping the discussions on topic. It eventually devolves into speculation about the field trip, so Steve lets them go on that note. 

He spends a few hours in his office reading through Natasha’s notes. She’s made a lot of progress over the time she’s been away, filling in the gaps left from Hydra’s influence. There’s plenty of evidence that something shady’s been going on in Sokovia. Frankly, he’s surprised she waited so long to act on it and hopes him staying behind didn’t let her down. 

Sam’s in the lounge, collapsed into the couch with mindless tv on when Steve calls it a night and treks back up the Tower. 

“Knee still bothering you?” Steve asks as he picks the other couch, grabbing a tablet from the side table. 

“Not really,” Sam says, rotating it from side to side. “I just wasn’t expecting an arrow.” 

“No one ever is,” Steve says. “You eat already?” 

“Yeah, some fish thing,” Sam says, gesturing back to the kitchen. “There’s more in the fridge if you want it.”

Steve raises a couple of fingers in thanks and pulls up a few sites on the tablet to see if there’s anything in the news about what the Avengers are doing. There’s nothing, so either the op hasn’t started yet or there’s a media embargo on what’s happening. It’s somewhere in the small hours over there, past midnight, so he doesn’t expect them to be active until sometime when Steve’s pretending to sleep. 

“So you didn’t go,” Sam says. 

“I didn’t,” Steve agrees. “Didn’t feel everything has to be my fight.” 

“And the guy you’re waiting on doesn’t have anything to do with that?” Sam stares at Steve pointedly, and won’t look away until Steve meets his gaze. “Because Clint gave me a list of movies that show it’s bad to stop hanging out with your friends for your boyfriend.” 

“It’s not that,” Steve says, and thinks about it. “Not entirely. I don’t just want my whole life to be about being Captain America.”

“I know you,” Sam says. “You can't not be the hero.” 

“Maybe I'll pick social causes. Pursuit of equality.” Steve shrugs and gets up to find some dinner. 

While he’s waiting for the oven to preheat, he texts Bucky to see if he wants to come over. He putters in the kitchen waiting for a response, but his oven’s ready before he hears anything. After the food’s in Steve texts again, this time that the Tower’s empty but for him and Sam. The food’s out and Steve’s been shamed into eating at the table for once by the time he finally gets something back: a smiley face. 

Steve snorts and sets the phone down. He tries not to read too much into it when Bucky never shows, and focuses on work instead. 

With the program’s field trip in progress, Steve’s time is spent in research for the program’s next cohort, working on expanding the program according to the outlines Maria’s been sending. 

There’s an update from Natasha late Tuesday. It’s brief: _ infiltrated facility, flushed Hydra cell, human test subjects in custody. Return in 48. _ Steve shares a look with Sam when he reads it out loud. If they had known, things might have gone differently. 

Steve spends the rest of the night scouring Natasha’s revisions for more details. They aren’t the first instance of Hydra’s human experimentation, but this one makes him think about Bucky and his arm. He doesn’t look it up, doesn’t want to leave a record on Tony’s systems. A public system’s not an option either. Steve doesn’t want to leave anything that can be tracked, not after seeing how Bucky reacted to his own name. He does let himself poke around with some half-formed ideas, looking through Stark files for evidence of Hydra activity alongside anything military in the past seven years. It’s monotonous research, but he doesn’t need much sleep. 

He’s still up with it when the team gets back early Thursday, sprawled on the couch with the tablet in one hand and his sketchbook in the other. It’s filled with a map of the Middle East, shaded to show any overlapping operations. On the other side he’s doodled Natasha and himself in the style of the Sistine Chapel. When Natasha herself comes in and drops down hard on the far end of the couch, he turns it around to the cover. 

“It’s so hard to deal with people’s feelings,” she says, staring up at the ceiling. She’s not wearing the combat uniform, instead in the Under Armour Steve favoured after a mission. 

“You know, when I said you should be command, I didn’t mean you should actually replace me,” Steve says, looking her over. She looks okay, if tired, but that’s no different than her solo missions. 

“I’m assimilating, I’m going to be you,” Natasha says with a lazy wave of her hand. It’s proof of how done she is that her motions are less constructed, more open than usual. 

“You’d do alright as a blond,” Steve says. 

“Rude,” Natasha says, and flips him off. She shifts a bit on the couch, turning more towards him. “Was the staycation good for you?” 

“Sure,” Steve says. They must be having a conversation. No one else has come through from the flight deck, so this is planned. It’s a sign of good leadership, though, so he doesn’t call her on it. “Actually, no, I was bored and nearly googled Hydra in Sokovia before I realized that could compromise the mission.”

“Could you imagine,” she says, and laughs. “The mission botched because you pinged some Hydra lackey’s Google alert?”

“It went okay, though?” Steve asks. “Destroyed the Nazis?” 

“Let’s say I could have used more boredom,” Natasha says. She picks up Steve’s sketchbook idly and raises an eyebrow to ask for permission. 

Steve shrugs, and turns back to close a few tabs on his device. 

“Human experimentation is not my favourite thing to stumble across,” Natasha says, face carefully blank as she examines Steve’s work. “There were kids there. They say voluntarily, but I don’t know. It didn’t feel right. It’s a concern, at least, that we could be seeing more people like you, people like me. More powerful enhancements than us, even, and they won’t be on the same side.”

“Well, it’s good we’re working on prep for that,” Steve says. It convinces him more that training is the way to go, both on the side of dealing with escalated incidents and raising awareness. It also proves there’s more work to be done with equality and having access to the same resources to make educated decisions. 

Natasha smirks and agrees. She lets a flash of a smile through at the sketch of her using Sam like a springboard when they were playing basketball. “You’re pretty good, you know.”

“Getting better,” Steve says, trying to hide his reaction when she comes to a quick sketch of Bucky, his face in shadow and turning away. 

“How’s this going,” she says, closing the sketchbook and handing it back. “With him.” 

“He says he’s going to work on being more of a part of my life,” Steve says, running his thumb over the cover of the sketchbook. “But I think he’s doing that for me, not because he thinks he should be interacting with people. It’s not enough to just randomly bump into him in the city and call that a relationship, but I don’t think he can offer more than that.”

Natasha makes a face. “That’s not fair to either of you.”

“You’re telling me,” Steve says. “I don’t want to be the guy who says change for me or we can’t be together, but I don’t know that what we have is going to be enough.” 

“You deserve more than just the pieces someone will spare,” Natasha says. She’s still slumped into the couch but her face is serious. “You deserve to have all of someone. Regardless of whatever shit he’s going through, he’ll either tell you he needs time or ask for help. That’s what I did, at least.”

“He told me he needs time, which I'm trying to give him,” Steve says. “He came out that night we were in the bar, told me he’s sorry he’s not ready. I think he’s working on it.”

“And since then, you’ve heard nothing. So he’s got time to hope you drop it and take the random encounters.”

“I don’t think it’s like that,” Steve says, but he’s not sure. Something big is holding Bucky back. He’s felt guilty over pushing, torn between having Bucky in private and knowing that it won’t be enough. 

“I’m speaking from a bit of experience with this one,” Natasha says, looking away to the fabric of the couch cushion. “This isn’t healthy, Steven.”

“I know,” Steve says. “I know.” 

The worst part is he does know, that regardless of the feelings he’s developing, he can’t be the reason for Bucky wants to get better. It’s selfish and won’t be enough. Steve might not be enough. 

Sighing, Steve knows he has to tell Bucky to take care of himself first, to get into recovery before they can be together. Bucky has enough to deal with without worrying about pleasing another person. It’s the right thing to do, but it hurts. 

He tosses the sketchbook onto the table. “Get your shoes on, we’re going to go find some stupid food.”

“What,” Natasha says, lifting her head from the back of the couch. 

“We deserve full lives and baked goods,” Steve says, tugging his shirt down where it’s ridden up. 

In the crowd of first dates and wannabe artists, they’re underdressed for artisanal donuts. The place is stark, just glass, stainless steel, and white tile, the only colour coming from a baker’s pink hair. 

Natasha takes the cardboard box of donuts after they order, and they claim a table in the middle of the room. They don't look like the usual type of donut shop patrons, but neither of them get more than a second look. 

“So, your trip,” Steve says, once they’ve found a place to sit that puts both their backs to the wall. He flips open the box, offering Natasha first pick. “Did you bring back any souvenirs?” 

Natasha grins at his attempt at subtlety and chooses a donut. “Not really. I heard the kids weren't very nice, so I didn't bring them anything.” 

“You left them at home?” Steve says. He pulls out a donut covered in cinnamon sugar. It’s an excellent choice. 

“With a very good babysitter,” Natasha says around a delicate mouthful of something chocolate. “We're not exactly seeing eye to eye, and I didn't think taking them away from home was the right path.”

“That's smart,” Steve says. “How are they doing?” 

“Angry with us, mostly,” Natasha says. “I understand, I went through that too.” 

“Rebellious teenage years?” Steve asks, only half-joking. He scrapes the sugar off his thumb with his teeth. 

“More like dissatisfied young adults,” Natasha says, picking through the box for another chocolate donut. “We’d just fight right now. Going to let them cool down a touch, see if we can compromise.”

“Let me know if I can help,” Steve says and takes a sip of his coffee. It’s not as good as the donuts. 

“If you can offer advice on making nice with Tony, we could use it,” Natasha says. “I'm not sure of the details but they do not like him.” 

Steve says he will and takes his time choosing his next donut. Things are better now, with Tony, but they won’t connect in the same way Steve has with Sam or Natasha. He turns his head to say as much to her, but Natasha’s still like she’s on alert, watching something on Steve’s other side. 

“This a friend of yours?” Natasha asks, raising her cup to hide her mouth. Steve’s focused on the wrong thing, and Bucky’s sitting down beside him before he gets a chance to ask. He has part of his hair braided back like Steve’s never seen him have before, the blond ends nearly unnoticeable this way. 

“Hi,” Bucky says to him, resting one hand on his leg. He’s staring at Natasha evenly,  like he’s assessing her. 

She returns the favour, blinking slow. Steve’s never been on the receiving end of that look and doesn’t want to be, even when she breaks out into a smile. 

“You must be the boyfriend,” Natasha says and sets down her cup. She drops her hand to her lap, out of sight under the table, and leans forward to see him better past Steve. 

“The friend?” Bucky asks her, mimicking her pose. Steve leans back into his seat, feeling the tension like something palpable. 

“Of sorts,” Natasha says, looking at Steve. 

“Bucky, this is Natasha, from the beer garden,” Steve says. He does not confirm or deny their assessments of each other. “Natasha, Bucky.” 

“I’ve heard so little about you,” Natasha says. “What a curious thing, for someone so important.”

“Likewise,” Bucky says, tightening his grip on Steve’s leg. “But I imagine I could find out a lot online.”

“I think I could find out everything,” Natasha says plainly, and just like that, the pressure lifts. Bucky leans back in concession, using Steve to block her sightline of him.  

“You weren’t answering your phone,” Bucky says, and Steve realized he’d left it in the Tower. 

He shrugs, though, because it was a few days since Bucky had blown him off. “Sorry, didn’t have it on me.”

“I wanted to talk to you,” Bucky says with a pointed look at Natasha. “Alone.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” Natasha says, breaking into another donut, this one with sprinkles. 

“Yeah, we should talk,” Steve says, and feels Natasha rest her foot on his under the table in reassurance. “I’ll see you back at the Tower?”

“Sure will,” Natasha says, and sets her chin on her fist to watch them both. “Nice to meet you, Bucky.” 

Bucky flat out ignores her and leads the way out of the donut shop. 

Once they’ve made it to the street and put enough distance in, Steve slows, nearly certain Natasha won’t follow. 

Bucky slows too, but his shoulders are hunched like he's one wrong sound away from taking off. Steve stays beside him, but doesn’t get too close. “So you want to talk?” 

“At my place,” Bucky says, and nods his head across the street. It’s casual like this isn’t the first time Steve’s heard Bucky has a place. 

Steve follows in silence, expecting Bucky to head to the subway, to Brooklyn, but they go towards the Village instead. They end up at a concrete building near NYU, maybe sixty years old and few stories tall. It’s stark and plain, surrounded by the decorative brickwork of older buildings. It's rundown student housing, gone through some creative restructuring over the years. 

They go through an unmarked door off the back, away from the street. Bucky's place is a small room in the basement in clashing shades of aqua and burgundy. There’s a bare mattress, a long table and a white plastic lawn chair. A single naked bulb hangs from the ceiling. Bucky doesn't comment on any of it, and shoves the door closed after them. It's dark, light from the only window blocked by a piece of cardboard. 

“What was she talking about in there,” Bucky says. The question makes Steve pause in his search for a place to sit. 

“Natasha?” Steve asks, buying himself some time to figure out what Bucky might have heard. 

“About what happened over there,” Bucky says. He retreats to one of the two-toned walls. 

“There was a Hydra cell over there, they went to break it apart,” Steve says, and goes to explain Hydra is a terrorist organization, around since the 1940s— 

“I know,” Bucky interrupts, breathing deep. “I know Hydra. What was it?” 

Not sure why Bucky wants to know, Steve can't really tell him much. He hesitates, biting at the corner of his mouth. “They went to stop what they were doing.” 

Bucky pushes away from the wall, pulling both hands out of his pockets like he’s ready for a fight. “I need to know, what did they do?” 

“Human test subjects, that's all I know,” Steve says, holding his hand up to keep Bucky from interrupting. Maybe he owes Bucky this. “There's a couple of people like me, they’re enhanced, but they're still over there. In custody.” 

Bucky takes a deep breath and drops down on the mattress looking wrecked, and Steve finally sits down beside him. 

“Why?” Steve asks.

“I needed to know,” Bucky says softly, staring at his hands. “Did they do that to them? Make them into weapons?”

“Nobody’s saying,” Steve says. “I think they wanted to, they blame Ton—someone for something. They made the choice.”

“Ah,” Bucky says. “Him.” 

“Listen,” Steve says, turning to him. Bucky's looking down, one hand picking at the elastic holding his hair in place. 

“What will you do with them?” Bucky asks, letting his hand fall to his lap.

Steve wants to reach out but keeps his hands to himself. “Make sure they're not a threat, to themselves or others. They won't have to do anything, but they've been living in anger for so long. It doesn't fix anything.”

“What if, what if they still try.” Bucky bites his lip. 

“I have to trust people,” Steve says, taking the chance and reaching out for one of Bucky's hands and gets the cool touch of the metal one. Bucky turns his hand over so their fingers can link together. “I have to believe, and if something happens, I deal with it then.” 

“You,” Bucky says, squeezing Steve's hand. 

“I've been thinking,” Steve says, and feels the way Bucky's arm tightens under his. “What I'm asking you isn't fair. You should be working on getting your life back for yourself, not because I want you to. You have to take care of yourself first, and I don't know that you can if I'm around.”

“What are you saying?”

Steve swallows hard. He doesn't want to say any of this but knows he has to, that it’s the right thing to do. “I'm saying I think we need to put this on hold, to let you reintegrate, figure yourself out. You need to reconnect with your city, not just with me.”

“I've told you there's more to it,” Bucky says, twisting his hand out of Steve’s and standing up. “If I go back out there's they'll find me.” 

“Who, Buck?” 

Bucky keeps his back to him but his shoulders are heaving, like he’s fighting with it but won’t say. One hand’s in a fist at his side. 

“I'm sorry, but I can’t,” Steve says, getting up from the mattress and reaching for Bucky's hand, but he steps away before Steve can reach. Steve deserves it, but it still hurts. 

“You know what I am and you're still doing this,” Bucky says, turning to face Steve. He raises his fist, releasing it to gesture at the space between them, at whatever this is, forcing Steve back. “You knew from that first time we really spoke, I told you I was protecting myself. And now you want me to expose that? Walk out and say here I am, use me?” 

“If I matter at all,” Steve says and refuses to say that he hopes he does, “you will realize I am doing this because I love you and you deserve more than this.”

Bucky snarls and stalks to the door. Steve's a little afraid of what he might do. “Bad things happened over there. Bad things were going to happen here, but when I'm hiding, they don't. I thought you might understand why I had to be nobody, but now you're a bad thing happening to me.”

“Bucky,” Steve says, “I'm trying to be the best for you, I love you.”

“Whatever that's worth,” Bucky says and pulls the door open to leave, door standing wide after him.

Steve stands still for a minute, waiting. There’s no trace of Bucky in this space. He knows Bucky won’t come back, but he's still reluctant to leave. He has work, though, has to finish the second round of training, and he heads back to busier streets. The program is a welcome the distraction. 

The stupid part is he hadn’t expected this. It’s arrogant to be sure, but Steve had hoped he’d meant more to Bucky than whatever secret reasons he had for not getting help when he’d first left the army. Not good enough to—Steve shoves that line of thought down ruthlessly and drags himself up to the Tower. 

It’s quiet when he lets himself in. There’s signs of life, a pile of shoes near the door, someone’s tablet charging on a table in the lounge, but no actual people. It’s a relief. Steve goes to get his phone, still plugged into his room. The lock screen’s filled with alerts from Bucky. Everything revolves around the Avengers’ trip, about things Bucky shouldn’t have known to ask about. Steve picks one at random to reply to with what he’s been thinking of since Bucky left. _I think you’re worth it._

His phone beeps immediately with an error message. His text can't be delivered. Steve tries again, and gets the same message. Oh, Steve thinks. He should have known this was going to happen, but it still hurts. 

Somehow, he drags himself to the final day of class, graduates them, and signs off on paperwork without anyone asking him how he’s doing. He couldn’t tell them. 

After he's finished filing, Steve stays in his office for a while to avoid the others. It’s not a good hiding space, but he manages a few hours alone, feet up on the edge of his desk and sketching what he can see of the skyline from the office window. 

It’s dark when Steve finally packs it in, and hunger’s given him a headache. Clint’s in the kitchen when he finally makes it to the Tower’s upper floors, reading the paper. He doesn’t look up when Steve comes in to grab something from the fridge. 

“Heard,” Clint says, just as Steve is about to leave. “You did the right thing.” 

“Doesn’t feel like it,” Steve says, pulling a fork from the cutlery drawer. 

“That's how you know it's right,” Clint says. “Losing someone sucks, but you gotta hope he’ll see what you’re saying, that he needs help. One of us can look after him, if you want. Make sure he finds it.”

“He burned his number,” Steve says. He rubs his thumb over the label on the container declaring it chicken and pasta. “Not sure he wants to be found.” 

“Still,” Clint says. “I know a thing or two about recovery.” 

“Thanks,” Steve says, and heads upstairs. 

* * *

Natasha’s sitting in his office when he comes back with coffee the next morning. Steve rolls his eyes and sets the cup on the desk, pushing it towards her as he leans back against the wall.

“You’re a tough man to find,” Natasha says, tapping one finger against the surface of the desk. 

“Haven’t really felt like being found,” Steve says. It’s a strange echo of Bucky’s sentiments, but he focuses on Natasha instead. 

“Okay.” Natasha looks to the coffee and sends it three inches back in Steve’s direction in refusal. “I’m heading back to Sokovia, but I wanted to see how you’re doing first.” 

Steve opens his mouth to tell her what he’s been saying to everyone else—that he’s  _ fine— _ but she doesn’t let him break in. 

“And to ask your opinion on the files on the subjects. I know you’ve read them.” 

“I have,” Steve allows and folds his arms over his chest. They’re Sokovian nationals caught up in the vision Hydra was selling of change but haven’t taken part in any operations. “My opinion is there’s no actual reason to detain them, and we can’t expect them to realize we’re not the bad guys if they’re sitting in a holding cell. They have to make their own choice.” 

“What do you take me for,” Natasha says, sitting back in Steve’s chair. She looks at the coffee still sitting between them, at Steve’s sketchbook sitting open, and finally to his face. Something shifts in her expression, something Steve feels in his chest. 

“I felt like I had everything I wanted, for once,” Steve tells her. “For three seconds until I screwed it all up.” 

“Asking for more isn’t screwing up,” Natasha says, pressing her palms down against the desk’s surface to push herself up from the chair. “Neither is wanting it. You aren’t blaming him for anything, so stop blaming yourself.” 

“Okay,” Steve says but doesn’t quite believe her. 

She holds his gaze for a few seconds before zipping up her jacket in preparation to leave. “Let me know if anything changes.” 

Steve nods as she passes but stands there long after she’s gone, until his coffee goes cold. It’s still sitting on his desk when Maria stops by in the afternoon, half-full with a skin on the top. 

Maria frowns at it. “Are you that busy, that you can’t put that thing out of its misery?” 

“Forgot about it,” Steve says, but really, he didn’t want to brave the kitchenette again for any curious looks. 

“Great, then you’re coming with me,” Maria says, and jerks her thumb towards the door. “Shooting range.” 

Steve nods and follows her, leaving the coffee behind. 

The range is exactly what he needs. He keeps the forward part of his brain busy with calculating angles and distance, the weight of the gun familiar and reassuring. They don’t talk about anything but caliber and range. 

It sets the tone for the weekend. He hangs out with Sam, with Clint, watching sappy movies, eating food, and sparring, all in near silence. When he does think about how hard he fell for Bucky, how it felt right, he can switch focus back to the next forkful or the next move. 

By Monday, he’s ready to string actual sentences together for his meeting with Maria and Pepper.

“Glad you ditched the sweats, mountain man,” Maria says when he walks in. Both she and Pepper are wearing fitted dresses, arms exposed, and he doesn’t feel so out of place in dark jeans and a sweater. 

“I wouldn’t have minded,” Pepper says, smiling when Steve goes to shake her hand and hugs him instead. “A true casual meeting.” 

“Sorry to disappoint,” Steve says, even though he’s regretting the change. It’s an extra step he’ll have to make before collapsing in front of the tv again after the meeting. 

They discuss what the program will look like in the future, based on the feedback they’ve collected from the first sessions already. There’s a week’s break before they bring in the next cohort for a lighter session that’s four days long instead of eight. Maria has ideas about running multiple groups concurrently. They’d bring in other trainers so Steve can cover scenarios instead of the in-class, like what they’re doing with the field trip. It’ll work, just like if they decide to offer departmental sessions and go on-site instead of here at the Tower. 

“I can travel,” Steve offers when it becomes obvious that’s the next step. “Out of the city, too. I think it’d be good to work with all the first responders in a town in New Mexico just like in a place like New York.” 

“You wouldn’t have to,” Pepper says, flipping through something on her tablet. “I’m sure we could teach the program to the trainer we hire to work with you—” 

“I wouldn’t mind the break,” Steve interrupts gently, and winces when they both look at him. “Seeing more of the country.” 

“Of course,” Pepper says softly, then changes the subject to hiring. 

Steve’s grateful, almost as much as when he’s free to slip back up to his room to his favourite pair of sweats and the green hooded sweatshirt he’s been living in. He’s just coming down to the lounge when Tony sweeps in. 

“No more,” Tony says, looking surprisingly well-rested. Maybe he hadn’t spent the last few days in the lab. “Put on real pants, we’re going out.” 

Steve thinks longingly of the couch. “I don’t really want to.” 

“You have to,” Tony says. “Show the world you're okay. Plus I know you're dying to tell me what I did wrong in Siberia.”

“Sokovia,” Steve can't help correcting. 

“See?” Tony says, taking a few steps back in invitation. “It'll do you some good, put you in familiar territory. Proving me wrong.” 

“Ha,” Steve says sarcastically, but obeys. He even puts on the nice black slacks that someone else had picked out for him and trims his beard. 

Cleaned up, he doesn't feel so out of place beside Tony’s trim gray suit, but then they go down to the garage level. The cars on offer make him question how equal they actually are, sleek in the way that can only mean expensive. 

“Japanese or Italian,” Tony asks him as he heads to the lockbox to get keys for whichever car he wants. 

“Japanese,” Steve says, thinking Tony means where to go for food, but he’s pointing at two different cars in the line. They end up in a slim and curvy gray thing, low to the ground, and Steve has to crank the seat way back to have enough room for his legs. 

“Show off,” Tony says, because he doesn't have the same concern. They zip out of the Tower’s parking garage and head downtown. Tony spends the time in the car raving about the place they’re going to, that it’s not Steve’s normal type of place but it does have good food. It's white noise conversation that takes Steve’s mind off everything but not dying as Tony drives more quickly down Broadway than should be possible this time of evening. 

Tony flips his keys to the valet when they get to the restaurant he’d picked, a Japanese place clad in gleaming white. Steve feels out of place barely a foot in the door. The host greets Tony by name and says she’ll direct them to their table. It’s set in full view of everyone, and Steve can feel them looking. 

Tony orders drinks for them both without looking at the menu, and raises two fingers on one hand to one of the chefs in the open kitchen. 

Steve can’t help but curl his shoulders up, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible next to the most obvious man in New York. It’s not going so well. 

“This isn’t what you had in mind,” Tony says, when they’ve both been served warm glasses of sake. 

“I’m even more aware of myself now,” Steve says, but tilts his cup to tap Tony’s when he offers it. “Things are usually...more casual.”

“More casual,” Tony repeats. He sets his cup down when he empties it. “I’m not exactly part of your usual foodie crew, you know.”

“You did shawarma,” Steve says. “That was casual.” 

“It was, wasn’t it,” Tony says. He looks thoughtful. “Okay, plan B. We’ll find something a little less...this.” 

“I don’t want to be a bother,” Steve says, even as he gets to his feet. Tony does something with his card and they’re walking out as smooth as can be, as if the whole plan was just to take shots of sake and move on. 

Once they’re back on the street, waiting on the valet to return with the car, Tony turns to him. He has his hand in his pockets, oblivious to the way people slow down to check him out and see if he’s really Tony Stark. “You either got dumped or dumped someone. You have to do something out of your comfort zone. It’s a rule. Otherwise you’ll just go back into the same patterns.” 

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” Steve says. He ducks his chin into the collar of his shirt, but no one pays attention to him. He could be anyone. “He burned his phone.” 

“Like literally?” Tony asks. “That’s assertive.” 

“I deserved it,” Steve says. “I kind of said we couldn’t be together until he put his life back together, and I guess he made that choice.” 

“That’s symbolic, sure, but you dated for what, two weeks?” Tony shifts his weight and won’t look directly at Steve, even with his ever-present tinted glasses on. “Give the guy some time to figure it out, I’m sure he won’t want to lose you.” 

Steve sighs deeply, feeling it in his chest. “There’s something big in his life that keeps him from living. I mean, I was drifting before I found my feet again and got my shit together. I just wanted the same for him. And if he wasn’t going to do it for himself, I didn’t want to find out I wasn’t enough either. I just broke it off, like he didn’t even matter.” 

“Whoa, okay,” Tony says. He turns to face Steve and grabs him by the forearms. “You did the right thing. If he told you he had to focus on getting his shit together—and don’t think for a second I’m going to forget you said that—and he said you had to take a break while he did, would that be a bad thing? If he did it?”

Steve shrugs because it wouldn’t, but he still doesn’t feel any better, and Tony lets go. 

“Thanks, Tony,” Steve says, honestly, and doesn’t expect to see Bucky over Tony’s shoulder, but there he is. 

“Steve,” Bucky says. His hair’s falling out of his ponytail around his face, and he’s got the cardigan on. It’s maybe his best article of clothing. 

“Bucky,” Steve says, stepping around Tony. He shoves his hands in his pockets so he doesn't reach for him. 

“You’re right,” Bucky says, rubbing his flesh hand over his face. “I’ve been running this whole time, and I’m going nowhere.”

“Hey, it’s alright.” Steve says. He's hopes but doesn't want to break the tenuous connection here, the delicacy of Bucky coming to find him. 

“Huh, what's that saying,” Tony says, interrupting the moment. “Set it free, if it comes back it’s yours? Congrats.”

“Tony,” Steve says reprovingly, turning to tell him off. He catches Bucky in his arms instead when Bucky steps forward, closer to Tony. The look on his face is startling in its blankness. 

Tony takes a step back, watching them both warily. 

Bucky pushes forward against Steve’s arms, making Steve tighten his grip. He stops, body held unnaturally still. 

“Nothing personal,” Bucky says, voice flat. It doesn’t sound like him. 

He swings his left arm back into Steve’s chest with enough force that Steve stumbles and loses his hold. Expression still blank, Bucky swings his arm around to drive his metal fist towards Tony’s face—Tony moves backwards, catching the fist with both hands as his gauntlets form around them. 

Steve goes to catch Bucky's arms and pull him in—but Bucky shakes him off, elbowing Steve in the face with his metal arm, bloodying his nose. He’s strong, full of power, and Steve had no idea. 

Bucky rolls his shoulders back and casts a look over his shoulder at Steve. There’s a flash of something on his face, just for a second. “I can’t stop me.”   

“Bucky,” Steve says, wiping at his face with his sleeve. He tries to grab Bucky’s arms to hold him still. “I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“I can,” Tony says, face hard. He hits Bucky with a blast from the gauntlet’s repulsor, driving him back but not off his feet. The cardigan’s no protection for that kind of energy and it looks like it hurts.

Someone screams off in the distance, but Steve’s focused on Bucky. He shakes off the blast and settles his weight onto his back foot, eyes only for Tony. 

“Stark,” Bucky says, in the flat voice again. “It's been a long time coming.” 

“What is,” Tony says. He's backing up, retreating from the crowds towards the empty street. Pieces of his suit are forming behind him.  

“I was made for this,” Bucky says, curling his fingers into a fist. “Been waiting for you.” 

“Make him stop,” Tony says to Steve, holding his hands ready for Bucky’s next attack. 

“I don’t think it’s him,” Steve says. He raises his hands too, trying to circle around next to Tony. 

Bucky watches them both with flat eyes, warily, like a predator. His mouth is a grim line, but there’s a hint of something under the surface that gives Steve hope. 

“You want to get him,” Steve says. “Tony Stark, right? That’s what you’re here for?” 

“Yes,” Bucky says. 

“What, no,” Tony says, flashing a look over to Steve. “Get me? Are you inviting him to do that?”

Steve ignores Tony for now. “For how long?” 

“Since I’ve been back,” Bucky says. “Been waiting for you.” 

“Set up a meeting with my assistant,” Tony says, and hits Bucky with the repulsor. 

It drives Bucky back again, nearly off balance. He grunts as his metal arm shivers with the impac, then comes forward like a train. One smooth movement, knocking Tony’s hand aside and grabbing him by the lapels of his suit to hold him still, raising the metal arm to punch him in the face— 

Steve jumps on his back, using his body weight to pull Bucky to the side and down. They land hard on the pavement with a crack and Bucky’s head hits the ground. Bucky’s subdued, not unconscious but not fighting, mumbling something Steve can’t make out. 

“Of all the people you could have fallen for, you had to find MKUltra bae?” Tony sounds distinctly unimpressed, shaking out his hands. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Bucky’s mumbling into the pavement, face pressed into it. “I can’t stop it, I can’t.”

His metal arm twitches, like it’s resetting itself. 

Tony notices and blanches, taking two steps back and into the full Iron Man suit for protection. 

Like flipping a switch, Bucky’s face goes blank again. Steve’s shoved off like he isn’t dead weight, left scrambling to get up. Bucky’s facing off with Iron Man now and doesn’t get much further than two steps before Tony has red and gold restraints on him.

He struggles, pulling at his forearms until Steve’s worried about the damage he’s doing to the broken right arm.

“You should knock him out again,” Tony says through the suit. “Recalibrate his brain.” 

“I don’t want to hurt him,” Steve says, but looking at Bucky’s face he can’t see much of the man he loves in there. 

“Don’t hurt him,” Tony says. He flips up the helmet’s face plate so Steve can see he’s rolling his eyes, and hands Steve a sedative. 

“Oh,” Steve says. The sedative makes Bucky’s eyes roll back in his head and he collapses into Steve’s arms. 

They stay that way on the trip back to the Tower in an unmarked van. Steve has to let go when they get there and Bucky gets unloaded into a sterile-looking room in medical. Tony has people looking at the damage to Bucky’s arm, strapping him down, and scanning him. 

Steve flinches when someone comes up to his face to inspect it too. He’d forgotten he’d been hit. He backs away to give them room to work on Bucky, but doesn’t want to leave him alone. 

“I think it’s programmed to control him, the arm,” Tony says, joining him once Bucky’s secured. He’s still unconscious. “There’s a trigger. Someone left the murder switch on.” 

“I think he knew,” Steve says. “He never wanted to meet any of you, wouldn’t even let me talk about you. He knew he could turn into a weapon.”

“I’m going to figure out whatever it is and reprogram it,” Tony says. “Or build him a new arm. Are you staying? I’ll put you on snack duty. Send Bruce down too, if you see him.” 

“Sure,” Steve says, and rides the elevator up in silence. He washes his face and sends Bruce down with Tony’s snacks, not able to face the waiting. If Bucky woke up, what would he say, that he was right and Steve should have listened? Or that Steve was right, and Bucky needed to get help. He’d known something was pressing on Bucky, something making him hide, but he didn’t think it was this.

He goes for a run to clear his head.  

He comes back after midnight, in the small hours, and the Tower’s still lit up. Tony’s working with Bruce in one of his labs, gesturing towards a schematic and a screenful of code. Steve doesn’t interrupt, but checks that Bucky’s still sleeping. He sits in silence, watching. 

Early morning brings no change, other than Steve’s stiff neck and the itch of a healing nose. He could use a cup of coffee, so he heads upstairs to the kitchen. Steve stops short in the doorway, feeling awkward with all eyes on him. Tony’s conspicuously absent. 

“You heard,” he says, shuffling his way to the coffee pot. He’s feeling every one of his years this morning. 

“It explains some things,” Natasha says simply. 

“Raises a few other questions,” Sam says, leaning back in his chair. “Like what now?”

“Or where’s Tony?” Steve says hesitantly. 

“You know he hasn’t left that lab since you came back with Barnes,” Natasha says, pushing her cup away from her. “He’s working on the puzzle of that arm. Apparently the programming work is impressive.” 

“It’s horrible,” Steve says, nearly slamming the glass pot down. “It took three years of his life, because he was afraid of what it was. It tried to make him kill Tony, and he knew what could happen.”

“And somehow, he still went to find you,” Natasha says. She leans back, mimicking Sam’s open body language. “Almost like he’d made his choice.” 

Steve gives her a look, but she meets his gaze steadily. She’s right. If Bucky’s made his choice, Steve needs to make his. He takes his coffee to go. 

He goes down a few times to see if Bucky’s awake, but each time he just stands in the elevator until the door closes. He’s afraid to step out and actually see him but can’t help trying. 

Somewhere on the third day and maybe the hundredth time Steve goes down there, Tony’s waiting on the other side of the elevator doors.  

“Oh good, you’re here,” Tony says, gesturing to his tablet as he steps into the elevator. “I wanted to ask, does he use his full name on paperwork or something else?”

“I think all three,” Steve says absently, looking for Bucky’s room, then focuses on Tony’s face. “Wait, what?” 

“For my notes,” Tony says, and looks at Steve. He looks like he’s gotten about as much sleep as Steve has, but his face shows it. “By the way, he wants to see you.”

“He’s awake?” Steve asks, a little surprised. There’s no one in the room Bucky’s been using, so it must be true.

“Now,” Tony says. “When I turned the murder switch off, we had to be sure it was off for good.”

“Murder switch?” 

“A complex targeting algorithm. Set to respond to me, my name, my voice, among other things,” Tony says. “Not sure who the mastermind was, Hydra, AIM, but the code’s been there as long as the arm has, which I’m going to guess was sometime when he was a prisoner of war.”

“He’s been running ever since,” Steve says, and figures no wonder Bucky was in hiding if he knew that was going to happen. 

“And then he met you and none of that mattered,” Tony says, waving his tablet around carelessly before tucking it under his arm. “I would have thought Bucky was programmed to kill Captain America, with the way he latched onto you.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. The pain of that is still fresh, one of the things he’s been caught up in as he waits. He was random, a guy the real Bucky liked enough to take a chance on that almost made him a murderer by proximity. 

“He wants to see you,” Tony says, crossing his arms over his chest. “The arm’s better too, both of them. I’d say you could compare war wounds but apparently you both heal quickly.”

“I don’t know,” Steve says. “I broke up with him.”

“Don’t be like that, go and see him,” Tony says, pressing the open door button. “Get your boyfriend back.”

Steve gets out and stands in the hallway, scrubbing his hand through his hair. He doesn’t feel ready. The elevator closes behind him, and he’s immediately tempted to press the button and call it back. 

There’s movement down the hall. Bucky, looking rumpled in a borrowed set of scrubs. He’s awake, one arm in a sling, and not nearly as bad as Steve’s been imagining. 

“Hi,” Steve says, turning to face him. 

“I wanted to tell you,” Bucky says. His fingers twitch at his side, the only sign he might be nervous. He’s in a short sleeved shirt, metal forearm on display like it’s no longer something to be afraid of. “Didn’t know what would happen if I did, if I’d turn it on you. Then it happened anyway.”

“Kind of dramatic,” Steve says. “I thought you were coming to tell me I made a mistake.”

“No, I did,” Bucky says, biting his lip. “You were right, I needed to take my life back. And I should have never let you go.” 

“You’re right about that,” Steve says, and closes the distance between them to pull Bucky into his arms, careful of his broken arm. Bucky goes without hesitation, fitting his head next to Steve’s neck. He smells like grease and applesauce. 

“I’m a work in progress,” Bucky says into Steve’s collarbone. “I can’t promise I’ll be okay right away.”

“I’m not okay either,” Steve says, keeping Bucky close. “We can work on that.”


End file.
